


The Matthews Family

by platonicharmonics



Series: The Matthews Family 'verse [1]
Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst with a Happy Ending, Arthur Morgan Lives, Asthmatic Hosea Matthews, Autistic Arthur Morgan, Autistic Charles Smith, BAMF Hosea Matthews, Best Dad Hosea Matthews, Dutch van der Linde Has Bipolar 1, Dutch van der Linde Has Borderline Personality Disorder (BPD), Eagle Flies Lives, F/M, Father-Son Relationship, Forgiveness, Found Family, Gang as Family, Gen, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, Heavy Fluff, High Honor Arthur Morgan, Hosea Matthews Lives, Hosea Matthews has Chronic Pain, Hosea Matthews is a Good Leader, Intersex Bessie Matthews, Jewish Hosea Matthews, John Marston Lives, Lenny Summers Lives, Leopold Strauss Lives, M/M, Molly O'Shea Lives, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Hosea Matthews, Rape Recovery, Redemption, Susan Grimshaw Lives, Tuberculosis Recovery, Uncle Lives, abuse recovery, but at what cost, restorative justice
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-04-22
Updated: 2021-01-12
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:48:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 243,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23781100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/platonicharmonics/pseuds/platonicharmonics
Summary: In an impulse decision, Dutch decides to sacrifice himself to Agent Milton in order to save Hosea. Now fully in charge of the Van der Linde gang, Hosea does everything in his power to get his family out of this wretched life and race against the clock ticking down to their destruction.And then, Arthur starts coughing blood.
Relationships: Albert Mason & Arthur Morgan, Albert Mason/Arthur Morgan/Charles Smith, Annabelle/Dutch van der Linde, Arthur Morgan & Dutch van der Linde, Arthur Morgan & Van der Linde Gang, Bessie Matthews/Hosea Matthews, Hosea Matthews & Arthur Morgan, Hosea Matthews & Charles Smith, Hosea Matthews & Leonard "Lenny" Summers, Hosea Matthews & Tilly Jackson, Hosea Matthews & Van der Linde Gang, Hosea Matthews/Dutch van der Linde, John Marston & Arthur Morgan, John Marston & Hosea Matthews
Series: The Matthews Family 'verse [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2021392
Comments: 545
Kudos: 509





	1. Dutch van der Linde's Last Stand

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warning** for descriptions of **gore** and flashbacks containing Dutch-brand **emotional abuse.**
> 
> ( **Update 08/12/2020:** If you're rereading this work and are wondering why certain lines/elements/scenes in chapters 3-8 seem different, it's because I went back and made mild tweaks surrounding any mentions of Bessie and Annabelle in order to retcon the timeline of this family's early years so that they fit in line with the later chapters. I promise you're not imagining things and that your memory is fine, and also that these tweaks don't change anything major enough to where a reread is required to continue the story! Thank you all for your patience with me as I continue to post hoc polish this behemoth)
> 
>  **Update 07/15/2020:** This first chapter is a full rewrite from what was originally here. When I first published Chapter 1, it was the first piece of writing I'd done in 3 years. I was proud of it at the time, but I have since become very greased up from my rust, and I knew that I could do much better - that I could do a chapter so heavy so much more justice. In addition, this fic developed far above and beyond what my first outline originally entailed. Dutch went on to be a far more important character than I'd intended him to. All of this led me to believe, with all my heart and soul, that I should rewrite and reupload Chapter 1. This entire project has been an adventure in me trusting my gut, and I decided to keep trusting it, here.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy the story I hope to tell ♥

_ “Think we got a problem out here!” _

John’s yell had Dutch’s head snapping up to the windows in an instant, glancing aside only once to check on the man and take in the strained panic glinting in his eyes. Dutch immediately started running over to cover beside the bank’s front windows, Arthur not far behind him, and it was right as Dutch’s shoulder hit the wall that he heard Agent Milton’s grating voice bellow  _ “Come out, it’s over!” _

Arthur skittered right up to the window to look, his expression tightening into a near-snarl as his eyes widened, and he ducked aside into cover before Dutch could snap at him to do so. The thud of heavy footsteps rushing for cover behind them swiftly joined his ears, and he heard John suck in a breath between his teeth and hiss, “Shit, Abigail.” 

Keeping track of what his boys were doing snapped away as soon as he saw Milton haul Hosea out from behind a wagon by the collar, looking more uneasy than Dutch had ever seen him. 

Their eyes met, hazel and brown, brown and hazel, and a thousand words were exchanged between them at once - of guilt, regret, desperation, remorse. Terror. Dutch felt his blood turn to ice.

_ “Dutch, get out here! Get out here NOW!” _

Dutch’s heart thundered in his chest, Hosea’s sing-song reassurances playing in his ears from the nights leading up to this day, and a cold spike of rage made him wheeze “Someone must have squealed,” because what else could this be? For twenty-five years Dutch had known Hosea, and they’d been in bad scrapes, they’d had jobs go wrong, they’d been held at gunpoint in front of the other before, but nothing -  _ nothing  _ \- was as bad or felt more dangerous than this.

“We never shoulda gone after Bronte, Dutch,” John growled from the door, and a violent white-hot bolt of rage flashed through Dutch’s blood, flashing the ice into steam, but he couldn’t afford to unleash it on John when one wrong word, one wrong movement could lodge a bullet in Hosea’s chest.

“Mr. Milton,” Dutch announced, straining to summon the gravitas that got his family out of so many binds in the past, “let my friend go-” his voice cracked and he had to suck in a breath, brain reeling for leverage, something Milton could want, anything,  _ hostages  _ “-or folks, they are gonna get shot unnecessarily!”

“Your  _ friend?”  _ Milton hollered, a glib note in his voice making the word ‘friend’ lilt upwards, bringing with it a tidal wave of implications.  _ “Ha, _ why would I do that?”

He saw confusion flicker in Arthur’s eyes that reflected his own - the law always took the hostage bait - and he felt his stomach turn over.  _ “Come on, _ Milton…” 

Milton bared his teeth, eyes quirked upwards like a cat toying with its food. “It’s over. No more bargains. No more deals.” The barrel of his gun grazed the nape of Hosea’s neck, making Hosea bow his head downwards, his frame curling in on itself. Milton clicked the hammer.

_ “Mr. Milton!” _ Dutch bellowed, scrambling to come up with a plan, any plan, words,  _ think, _ why wasn’t he able to think, the terror in his veins formed a sludge between his brain and his heart, his thoughts coming slow, _ too slow,  _ a jagged cacophony of screaming, warring voices that plagued him since he first saw Milton’s hand on Hosea, since he hit his head on that trolley, since he looked in the eyes of that woman and pulled the trigger, and he opened his mouth to speak of what he knew, to speak of America, to buy time, to beg, to make one last deal,  _ just one more, _ he would give anything,  _ anything- _

His eyes fell on Hosea’s almost by accident, rising to his from their submissive stare at the ground, and all the voices fell quiet at the look of-...

Resignation.

Hosea’s pained, slurred voice rang in his ears, echoing from years and years ago, flat and croaking.  _ I was always gonna die first, Dutch. Why shouldn’t it be now? _

A warmth spread through his chest, flowing free from his heart to take control of his limbs, his brain surrendering itself to the static and fading into the silence.

Dutch tossed the money bag to Arthur and sidled towards the door, drawing his twin Schofields and holding them up in the air, their intricate gold engravings glinting in the morning sun. He stepped into the doorway, ignoring John’s confused and panicked stare to focus on how Milton whirled Hosea around and cinched his arm around his neck, digging the barrel of his gun into his temple hard enough to cut him, making Hosea gasp and claw at his arm.

“I have a plan,” he called out to Milton, slowly walking out the door of the bank and smacking away John’s outstretched hand with his elbow. Milton was watching him like a hawk now that there were no barriers between them that would make their bullets go wide if they shot at each other. Dutch heard and felt a chorus of metal cut through the air as dozens upon dozens of gun barrels pointed away from his gang, his  _ family,  _ to him.

“Dutch, what are you  _ doing,” _ Hosea ground out, that resignation gone from his eyes and replaced by wall-eyed anxiety. Milton cinched his arm even tighter around his throat and Hosea choked, straining to catch Dutch’s eyes as he shook his head.

“What is this ‘plan’ of yours?” Milton called out in a mocking drawl. He and all the rest of the Pinkertons were on edge, not wanting to play their cards if Dutch had an ace up his sleeve.

He didn’t. But this was buying time. Time. That was all he needed.

That was all Hosea needed.

Dutch slowly walked forward, his hands up in the surrender position, his revolvers hanging languidly from his pointer fingers. His tongue slipped out to wet his lips, and he huffed, feeling more calm and at peace than he had in months.

He would give anything.

“It’s a good one.”

The world slowed down, down, down - Hosea’s head shakes, Milton’s twitching sneer, the nervous shuffles of the Pinkertons, the flapping of the birds overhead - all into a near-still creep of motion. The color of the world drained away, washing it out into a dull copper, taking all sound with it save for the screaming rings of age-old tinnitus as they crescendoed into a fever pitch in his ears. Faster than one could blink, he spun his revolvers around into his hands with their triggers slamming into his fingers. His heart thundered once - ka- _ thump _ \- and red blossomed in his vision, painting Milton and all the rest in pulsing blooms of scarlet that consumed their faces and their hearts, and Dutch marked each of them in his mind’s eye, gliding his gaze down their ranks until he ended on Milton, saving him for last.

His Schofields thundered and two- three- five- seven Pinkertons fell before the world roared back into color and noise as bullet after bullet, an unholy roar, more earth-shaking than the harshest thunder, ripped through the street.

A crater appeared in his shoulder, and his vision flashed to-

Analytic hazel eyes observing him over the firelight, gradually softening and warming from their cold, almost bored neutrality, as he spoke and gushed and raved, for hours and hours, about justice, and kindness, equality and freedom. He finally stops for breath, and that’s when he hears it.  _ “You make me want to change.” _ He looks up at the man, ten years his senior, and all of them were ten years of blood on his hands and ruined lives in his wake. He doesn’t think twice about inviting him into his tent, about sleeping with his back turned to him.

Another gory hole punched through his leg, and-

He was gingerly kneeling down in front of a scrawny, gangly boy with skinned knees and palms in threadbare clothes, trembling and curling away from him like he was going to be struck instead of offered an alcohol rag and bandages. He laughs, cracks a joke to try and put him at ease, and holds out his hand to introduce himself, beaming the kid a smile. Big blue eyes under a mop of dirty-blonde hair stare at him for a long while, searching, hungry and desperate, before the boy slowly reaches out and places his hand into his.

Metal tore through the bone and blood vessels of his hand and he saw-

A bullet tearing through the rope of a noose hanging from a tree. A tiny body falls crumpled to the ground and Dutch roars, turning his guns now to unleash a wave of thunder that fells over a dozen bodies under the span of a minute. He gallops his horse past the small child and hangs low out of his saddle, yanking him up off the ground and cinching him against his chest as he spurs his horse to sprint away from that repulsive homestead, ignoring the kicks and bites and screams and sobs, the boy’s ratty brunette hair flying in the wind as those small hands struggle to figure out if they want to hit him or cling to him for dear life.

A hole is ripped through his arm and-

That same boy, fourteen years older, is staring at him with guarded suspicion, his eyes widening slightly as he clenches his jaw. Dutch leans in close, presses a finger into his chest, hissing, cold and quiet,  _ “I know you.” _ Because that boy is going to leave him, would choose his woman and his child over him, and the sickening fear and jealousy that grows in his gut wraps around his stomach like the pythons that slither through the swampwater, makes him want to wrap his hands around his throat and never let go until the devotion and trust returns to those eyes once more.

A bullet tore through his stomach.

_ “I expect you’ll betray me in the end, Arthur. You’re the type.” _ Arthur stops mid-step, swaying slightly, and rocks back onto his heels, looking at him with a content smile that flickers out like a blown-out candle as his brow furrows. It started,  _ he’d known _ it had - the complaints, the scowls and frowns in the snow of Colter, always off with Hosea, whispering, talking, laughing with each other, all the way back to Blackwater and before, the two of them talking about how he’d changed, how he’d  _ fallen, _ and Arthur had never left or betrayed him, and Dutch never expected him to - but then again, he’d never expected Hosea to, either, now  _ had he? _

He felt his throat split open.

Hosea is trembling in front of him, his hair only graying at the temples, his hands clenched into fists and shaking against his thighs, and Dutch scowls,  _ sneers _ at the way Hosea’s eyes are staring at him with such raw  _ hurt _ , at the tears streaming down his cheeks, and all he can think is - good.  _ “You leave? Then you forfeit all rights to this gang,” _ he snarls.  _ “You forfeit all rights to those boys. You forfeit all rights to  _ me. _ You wanna leave?  _ Fine. _ But you ain’t taking anything more from me than you already have. Now… Get the hell out of my sight. Run off back to  _ her.” Hosea’s face twists in agony and he violently tears out of Dutch’s tent. Dutch slowly sits down on his cot and his hands start shaking. They don’t stop for days.

A hole punched through his cheek.

He’s laying on his bed in Shady Belle, only one night before, using Hosea’s lap as a pillow, his head buried in the man’s stomach as those old, worn hands work their way through his hair in long, reverent strokes. He’d had a panic attack not ten minutes earlier, his body flooring itself into primal terror as his brain shattered in a thousand different directions and sank into a haze of  _ what ifs. _ Hosea had put a guiding hand on the small of his back and led him to his room, had held him, hushed him, sat with him, comforted him. Always there. Always supportive. Always protective. 

The decades had been brutal on them both, had robbed things from them both, torn them out of their hands and spat on them, raked claws through their heads and their hearts. For Dutch, it had hardened him. Had planted seeds of fear deep in his core like a fungus that consumed an entire year’s crop, tainting and plaguing the land until it was barren. He’d become envious. Doubtful. Hateful. For Hosea… he had gone through the same things, had lost just as much, suffered just as much, and through all of it, it had taken the nihilistic, critical, reserved and withdrawn man he was and…

...made him kind.

_ “You make me want to change,” _ Dutch breaths into his stomach, curling his fingers into his shirt.

He still felt those hands. In his hair. On his chest. Held, safe and warm, even though he was getting so, so cold. His vision swam and Hosea’s face returned, a little hazy, haloed by sunlight, looking like some kind of angel. He thought it funny. Hosea always called  _ him  _ the better angel to his nature. 

_ No . . . nono . . . dearest . . . stay with me . . . no . . . Dutch . . .  _

That handsome face. Those warm hazel eyes. Dutch loved them so. He reached up to touch that stubbly cheek, to feel his wiry scruff and wipe away those tears, but he could not feel anything through his hand. That was all right. Because Hosea was all right.

He used everything he had to focus on those eyes, to let them consume him, drown him in the  _ love  _ pouring out of them alongside those tears, to keep gazing into them until everything faded into darkness.

There were flashes of clouds.

Stars.

The moon loomed down at him through shadowy leaves, and then he saw it.

The vulture. 

The same vulture that had plagued him for so many years, coming to him in times of melancholy, in dreams, to stare at him with dark beady eyes that glinted with silent judgement. He’d seen it shortly before he met Micah. He’d seen it after Blackwater. He’d seen it after Angelo Bronte. And he was seeing it again, now, only the feathers of the bird looked unkempt and unhealthy, and its eyes stared into his soul - not judgemental anymore. Just… tired. And maybe, just  _ maybe… _ approving.

A brilliant, gorgeous sliver of sunlight climbed above the horizon, reaching out across the land with soft golden fingers, stretching out towards the choked, scraggly forest that the vulture sat perched in. It turned its head and watched with a soft brown gaze as a silver fox sprinted past, leading a scampering raccoon and bounding stag, out of the forest and its suffocating shadows to meet that shining sun, rising to greet them. 

The vulture watched them go and remained in the dark of the forest, its wings broken, too weak to follow them on that new great adventure and only getting weaker. It slowly nestled into itself, settling down for a long sleep. 

The vulture closed its eyes. 

  
  
  


He hoped they’d find happiness without him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [That's The Way It Is🎵](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=JsLK4_Idk18)
> 
> Some commentary on changes:  
> -Hosea's original Morality Animal was a golden eagle, but was changed into a Silver Fox.  
> -Dutch was originally redeemed through his sacrifice and saw a High Honor Mountain Lion, but looking at where this story has gone, I feel like it's more powerful if he's not redeemed here. The story I'm trying to tell, the messages I'm trying to communicate... I felt like they would be undermined if Dutch was redeemed through death. After all, Low Honor Arthur does not instantly achieve High Honor through the single decision of sacrificing himself for John - his tuberculosis was supposed to give him a warning, to give him a chance to change and make amends. Dutch does not have a warning. He didn't have that chance.  
> -More and more graphic flashbacks were added as well as flashbacks involving Arthur and John.  
> -Most other changes are pretty much just... more flowery language, to help this chapter fit more easily with the style of the later chapters.
> 
> On one last note, I'd like to give a quick gush about why I see Dutch's Low Honor Morality Animal as a vulture. Apparently, vultures symbolize "purification and the restoration of harmony in your life. It symbolizes the time to right your wrongs and break free from the shackles of your own ego. The vulture meaning also brings to focus the real meaning of life and death."


	2. Escape from Saint Denis

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warning for Extreme Homophobia and False Accusations of Pedophilia** because Micah Bell exists.
> 
> Also, a note on the dynamic between Dutch and Hosea (updated as of July 2020): I originally wrote their relationship as "up to interpretation" between platonic, queerplatonic, and romantic, but as this story evolved and progressed, it became pretty explicitly queerplatonic. That said, romantic readings are absolutely welcomed!
> 
> This story is, fundamentally, my love letter to Hosea and the familial love between the gang. I hadn't finished the main story before publishing the first chapter, but I sure have now, and this work is even more important to me after seeing what happens to everyone. I hope that all of you enjoy what I have in store ♥

“ _ NO! _ ” Hosea screamed and launched himself away from Milton towards Dutch as the gang shattered the bank glass and answered the Pinkertons’ hailstorm with their own storm of gunfire and screams, forcing Milton to scamper back behind cover, his arm still outstretched from firing a bullet through Dutch’s throat.

Dutch was wobbling on his feet, blood overflowing and dribbling out of his mouth, and the only noise Hosea could hear was the wet wheezing pants coming out of Dutch’s chest. Hosea’s hands seized his shoulders and his pistols fell to the ground, and all of the sudden he was going limp, sinking to the ground and pulling Hosea down with him. Hosea cushioned his fall and cradled his head into his lap, frantically running his fingers through his hair as his other hand fisted into his shirt.

Blood. Blood. Everything was blood. Burning hot, thick, streaming, coating Hosea’s hands and soaking through his suit and into his skin and creating a pool across the cobblestones.

“No, nonono, Dutch, dearest, stay with me, stay with me, no, come on, stay with me, Dutch, Dutch, no  _ please- _ ”

Dutch’s eyes found their way back to his, glistening brown and shining with tears, and his mouth shook into a smile. A bloody hand slowly reached up to touch his cheek, leaving a smear of blood across it, as Dutch’s strained pants got slower-

And then he was gone, his hand falling limp to the stones, eyes cold and dull and empty.

Hosea whimpered his name and clutched his body to him, paying no mind to the bullets tearing through the walls and wagons and stone around him in every direction. The whole world had narrowed down to him and Dutch, Hosea clinging to his body and feeling the creep of ice crawling its way towards his heart.

_ “HOSEA!” _

Everything was so cold.

_ “HOSEA!” “Hosea!” “HOSEA!” “HOSEAAAAAA!” “HOSEA!” “Hosea please!” _

Hosea blinked. He heard Arthur’s pained voice scream “HOSEA GET IN HERE!” 

John’s voice close behind, panicked and high and screaming “HOSEA, COME ON!”

Joining the voices of his boys was Lenny’s voice, Charles’s voice, Javier’s, even Bill’s squeal, all calling his name.

His boys. His sons. His family needed him.

All of his emotions drained away to float somewhere behind him, and in one quick motion Hosea picked up Dutch’s pistols and fired a couple shots into Pinkertons’ heads as he bolted into the bank and into cover.

“Hosea what do we  _ do?! _ ” Lenny cried, eyes wild with fear.

Hosea turned out of cover to fire more rounds at the devils outside. “They’ll have us surrounded, and they’ll drive in here eventually, so we need to go either down or up. Charles, use the dynamite, blow a hole in that wall there and get up on the roof to give us some sniper cover so we can follow you.”

Arthur tossed his bolt-action rifle to Charles in one fluid movement. “Yessir,” Charles grunted, snatching a brick of dynamite and bolting to the wall.

“Lenny, Saint Denis has an underground tunnel system for sewage and floods, try to see if there’s a way down in the bank.”

“Got it boss,” Lenny hollered, sprinting off into the bank.

“Arthur, John, stay close to me,” Hosea ordered, voice cracking. 

“‘’Course,” Arthur grunted as John hollered “I’m with you!”

Charles bellowed “Brace yourselves!” a few seconds before the wall blew, and not a second after the explosion was finished the gang was back up and firing out of the windows, fighting for their lives as Charles disappeared into the cloud of dust.

“Why the hell did Dutch do that?!” Bill yelled.

Micah curled his upper lip into a sneer as he shot down three Pinkertons. “That was the dumbest bullshit I ever seen!”

Nothing roused inside Hosea; he simply listened as Arthur snapped “SHUT the HELL UP!” and punctuated it with two shots from his Lancaster repeater.

Javier joined in with “He saved Hosea’s life!” 

“He threw away everything for an old wheezer who’s not long for this world anyway!”

The insult bounced around the hollow canyon in Hosea’s chest and fell to the side, inconsequential. “Glad to see such loyalty in my gang,” he said, voice so flat it was barely audible above the gunfire.

“I thought we was the  _ Van Der Linde gang _ , old man!”

John let out an audible snarl and took down four men. “Hosea and Dutch have always led together, you idiot!”

Micah spat, “This is why I never get  _ attached  _ to anyone, attachment makes ya  _ stupid! _ Ol’ Dutch’s biggest flaw was always that he cradled the  _ weak! _ I’m sorry I didn’t realize earlier this gang was led by a pair of SODOMITES-”

The next thing out of Micah’s mouth was a “eungh!” as Bill clobbered him upside the head with the butt of his rifle.

“You damned fool,” Hosea snapped, sparing the whole ordeal a glance as he felled twelve men and ducked back into cover to shove bullets into Dutch’s chambers. “Now we have one less gun and dead weight to carry out of here!”

“ _ No one insults you and Dutch! _ ” Bill roared.

“I’ll deal with you later,” Hosea growled. “ _ Lenny! _ How’s it going?”

“There’s a way down in the bathroom, I beat a hole in the wall!” came Lenny’s call from inside the bank.

“Good gumption, kid!” Hosea hollered back. He glanced towards the back of the bank, out the hole where Charles went, and back up front out the windows where over a hundred lawmen were descending upon them. 

“We need to split up,” he announced.

“ _ What?! _ ” John hissed.

“We need to split up,” Hosea repeated. “I sent Charles out there as a safety measure, but I’m not leaving that boy behind, and there’s no way we can get him back in here, so I’m going to send two of you boys after him while the rest of us cover you. Let him lead, and by God get out of the city and get safe. Once you’re clear I’m gonna take the load of dynamite, set it against that support beam, and light it. The rest of us will make a mad dash into the sewers while the front of the building collapses, since the hostages already escorted themselves out the back.”

He looked at his boys and knew he had to make a choice. Who to let out of his sight. Who to take the harder route. Who to risk dying.

“Arthur,” he said, voice trembling. “I’ve seen you and Charles. You two working together are a force of nature. I trust you.”

“Okay,” Arthur breathed, moving towards the hole.

“Javier, you’re the next best gun, I want you to go with them - protect them and let them protect you.” Javier nodded mutely and scampered towards the hole. “And Arthur?!”

Arthur turned back from where he was atop the rubble.

Hosea ducked back into cover and looked him in the eye. “I love you, son.”

Arthur turned white as a sheet. “Love you too, ‘Sea.” And then he was gone.

“Bill, pick up your mess off the floor and get ready to run,” Hosea ordered as he, Lenny, and John let loose a flurry of bullets to ensure Arthur and Javier could make it up the ladder, the thunder of Charles’s rifle a reassuring sound from above.

“What about Abigail?!” John yelled.

“I got caught so she could slip away, she’s gotta be long gone by now,” Hosea yelled back. “Trust her.” He saw a Pinkerton explode out of cover beside the door John was shooting out of to tackle him, and with a quick draw Hosea fired between John’s legs and into the man’s shin, making him cry out and fall flat on his face to be finished off with a quick pop in the head by John’s revolver.

The sounds of two more guns joining Charles’s from the rooftop was their cue.

_ “Follow Lenny, boys!” _ Hosea yelled as he grabbed the box of dynamite and shoved it against the pillar, waiting until John, Lenny, and Bill with Micah slung over his shoulder like a butchered pig were safely past before lighting one last stick and tossing it out towards the pile, turning and hoofing it as fast as his old legs could carry him. 

They all barely managed to slither down the hole and splash into the sewage and soot and oil-tainted water just as a massive explosion rocked the ground and they heard the roar of the building collapsing. Not wasting any time, Hosea led them silently through the tunnels, going as fast they dared to not kick up too much of a splash lest they catch cholera, choking down their loud gags from the ungodly smell even through their bandanas. 

It wasn’t long before, through the drains up above their heads, they started hearing a great commotion of screams and the frantic beat of horse hooves and fire wagon bells. Lenny turned to comment on it, but Hosea held his hand to his lips and ushered them all on their way.

It was probably about an hour before Hosea led them to a culvert shining sunlight from the outside, where it was draining the sickly water into the creek. He gestured for them to wait, angling his head at the sun and waving his hand to indicate it going down. Everyone nodded their understanding and uneasily propped themselves up against the metal of the culvert to wait. Bill sat Micah down in the filth and propped him up against the metal.

Micah started snuffling, then slowly opened his eyes and squinted in the dim light. “Huh… fuck…”

“ _ Shh _ ,” Lenny hissed.

“Shh,” Micah mocked, then seemed to process where he was and what his butt was sitting in. He threw up into the water, making everyone cringe away from it as it slowly flowed out the culvert and away.

“Here,” Hosea said absently, yanking Micah’s bandana up and over his nose. “And here,” he handed him a flask of whiskey from his inside coat pocket. “Smell that to get your stomach to settle.”

Micah stared blankly at the flask for a second before unscrewing the cap and shoving it under his bandana. He turned his head to look at Hosea as if seeing him for the first time.

“You fellers brought me with you?” he asked, sounding so genuinely confused that John snorted a laugh out his nose.

Bill sneered at him and harshly whispered, “If it were up to me we would’ve, but Hosea saved your ass.”

Micah looked at Hosea again and quirked an eyebrow. “...Why?”

“I ain’t in the business of leaving family members behind,” Hosea replied, voice flat. “Even the ugly ones.”

Micah huffed at that, then took a long inhale of the whiskey. “So, old man, I’m curious. Between you and Dutch, who was…  _ you know _ …” he gestured.

Hosea raised an eyebrow.

“Which one of yus was the man and which one was the woman? I reckon you were the woman, what with your…  _ lithe  _ body and tiny hands.”

Hosea rolled his eyes as John hissed, “Shut up.”

Micah turned to John with a sneering smirk in his eyes. “Oh, did I strike a nerve with Daddy’s Favorite? Oh wait, that’s Arthur. Tell me, John, Dutch and Hosea took you two in when you was boys, right? I always wondered why they’d take on children, but now I think I know. Did you earn your keep in their  _ bed-  _ eungh!”

Micah slumped unconscious again after John punched him square in the face. Hosea gave a long-suffering sigh and took his flask back.

“ _ He- _ ” John started, far too loud, then caught himself and smothered his voice down into a reedy whisper. “You and Dutch  _ never  _ abused me and Arthur, I wasn’t going to sit there and let him-”

“I am surrounded by fool children,” Hosea deadpanned. “Micah’s a washed-up killer from a white trash family, but Dutch saw something in him, and I’ll be damned if we start betraying our own, and our own he is, whether we like it or not.”

After the commotion was over, everyone ducked their heads again and waited as the sun crept down below the horizon. Micah woke up at some point but decided not to run his mouth, and when it was dark, Hosea stuck his head out of the pipe and looked around, then gestured for them all to scurry out of the culvert and through the deep mud, across the filthy creek and into the scraggly trees of the bayou, eyeing the long trails of lanterns on the roads in the distance as Pinkertons rode out in patrols.

“Holy shit,” Lenny breathed, looking behind them, and all the men turned to see Saint Denis glowing with flame, an entire district burnt to ash.

“Did we do that?” Bill asked, his voice uncharacteristically small.

Hosea observed the carnage with tired eyes. “Let’s just hope no honest folk got ki-”

Hosea cut himself off and ushered them all into cover when he saw movement in the darkness, but slowly stood up when he recognized Silver Dollar, Old Boy, Brown Jack, Maggie, and Baylock trotting towards them. Silver Dollar slowed when he approached Hosea, and gently pressed his nose to his, letting out a huff of hot breath. Hosea’s mouth twitched upwards for a second, and he reached up to stroke his stallion’s cheek before turning to the other men greeting their horses.

“We’re going to split up,” he announced quietly, “ride out in separate directions. Try to avoid the roads as best you can. If you run into any law, do everything you can not to be spotted, and if you must kill do it quietly, and for God’s sake hide any bodies. We’ll split into three teams. John, Lenny? You two boys ride hard up north. Take care of each other. Bill? Ride out west. Don’t go to camp, ‘cause we won’t be there for long. Look in the post offices for letters from me about where we are. Micah, you’re with me, we’re taking a long route back to camp.”

John hesitated mounting Old Boy, looking at Hosea with uncertainty. Hosea grasped him firmly on the shoulder and cupped his jaw, communicating all of the thoughts and emotions he had no time to say with his eyes. John licked his lips and nodded back, eyes watery, then swung up onto Old Boy and led Lenny out into the humid darkness.

Bill ran off while Hosea swung up onto Silver Dollar, and then it was just him and Micah, stroking Baylock’s neck from his spot in the saddle.

“Wanted to keep an eye on me, old man?” Micah leered.

“Yes.” Hosea gave him a sharp look. “Dutch may have trusted you, but I sure as hell don’t. That’s something you’re gonna have to earn. I think you’re a cheap killer who takes sadistic pleasure in hurting people whether or not they deserve it, who’s reckless and stupid and with a mouth full of rot that’s gonna get you and everyone around you killed. I’ve never thought you were fit for this gang and if it were up to me I woulda left you in that rotting saloon in Crenshaw Hill.” At Micah’s curled upper lip, Hosea sat up tall in his saddle and looked down his nose at the man. “So I’m going to give you an ultimatum. If you think you can shape up and live in peace with this ragtag band of sodomites and ‘darkies’ and harlots and addicts and crazies, then I’m willing to treat you like one of my own. If not, then listen real close.”

Hosea rode Silver Dollar right up to Baylock’s flank and leaned in close, voice dropping down into a cold and calm growl. “I want you to  _ run _ . Run off to whatever den of rapists and killers you seem all too fit to meld into and never seek us out again, ‘cause if you do, I’ll slit your throat myself.”

Micah’s hand flashed down to his gun and pulled it up with the hammer pulled back and his finger on the trigger, but Hosea’s knife was already resting its blade on his throat, over his artery, nicking it just deep enough for a trail of blood to leak downwards in the moonlight. Micah breathed heavily and stared at Hosea, eyes wild like a rabid dog, as Hosea stared unblinking and unmoved.

Micah bared his teeth and spat “ _ Cock-sucker _ ” before turning Baylock and kicking him hard, galloping off into the darkness.

Hosea stared after him until he faded away entirely into the night, then allowed himself to cough out the clinging discomfort in his lungs, growing harsher and harsher as he gasped for breath. After massaging his chest for a spell, he managed to bring in shallow breaths without coughing, his lungs whistling. Shaking it off, he spurred Silver Dollar into a gallop, flying through the wetlands and dodging alligators to run hard for Shady Belle, to rescue what family he could before the Pinkertons descended on that house like the rapture.

The ride was mostly a blur. The next thing he knew, Silver Dollar burst through the trees and skidded into the middle of camp, making Sadie whirl around with her rifle and Uncle and Mary-Beth jump back with surprised yelps.

“Hosea?!” Mr. Pearson shouted.

Abigail came running up into the lantern light, Jack clutched in her arms. “Hosea, w-who’s blood is that, where is everyone else? Where’s John?!”

Hosea stared ahead at nothing in particular as everyone at camp hurried towards him. “The bank job went bad. Real bad. Pinkertons were… were everywhere, we got sloppy, we... Dutch is dead-” everyone gasped; some sobs escaped “-the rest of the boys, I scattered them. I cut Micah loose.” Hosea shook his head. “We can’t stay here. We can’t stay here. I bet they’re coming right this minute. We can’t-”

Susan came up and squeezed his arm like a vice, making him snap out of his panicked haze and meet her eyes. The woman was looking up at him, eyes wet and threatening to roll down tears, but her expression was one of iron, of determination, of grace. Hosea took in a shaking breath, held it, then exhaled slowly.

“We need to get out of Lemoyne,” he announced, swinging off of Silver Dollar and walking towards the house for a goddamn map. “Everyone, pack up, fast as you can. We’re leaving tonight.”

Susan turned to everyone’s ashen, tear-stained faces and snapped “You heard the man.  _ Get to work! _ ”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, I have this written all the way up to Chapter 5, and I think I'll release one chapter per week on Sundays so that people aren't left hanging for over a month if my motivation takes a hit. This oughta help when I get slammed with all my final papers and projects before graduation, too.
> 
> I've got all the chapters pretty much planned out down to specifics now, and I thought it might be fun to reveal the title of the next chapter to you guys as we go:  
>  **1) Dutch van der Linde's Last Stand**  
>  **2) Escape from Saint Denis**  
>  3) Escape from Lemoyne


	3. Escape from Lemoyne

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warning for minor physical abuse** because Miss Grimshaw's here (I intend to get her to Stop That over the course of this fic), **implied rape threats** because the Murfree Brood exists, and **referenced miscarriage/child death**.

Hosea walked into the dining-room-turned-study where he and Dutch had pored over maps of Saint Denis and blueprints of the bank and threw all the papers to the floor, grabbing the map of the country instead and harshly laying it out, eyes skittering over it.

Tahiti. Australia. Mangoes. Hosea let out a sharp huff. What fools they’d been. Was there truly any place in the world that society had not touched? Where they would be safe? Would Tahiti and Australia not be them invading more native land, or would they not single out their peculiar band of American hicks? Even if there was some miracle promised land beyond the ocean, he heard Dutch talk about his ship captain contact - a man who only respected money. How much money could the Pinkertons or the U.S. government offer him to serve their gang up, trapped on a boat with no escape, ripe for the picking?

Hosea’s eyes were staring at the map, unseeing, his breaths coming too fast. Hosea shook his head and screwed his eyes shut, scrubbing at his face, but quickly recoiled when he felt blood - Dutch’s blood - smear even more.

Trembling, Hosea looked at the map again. There would be no peace in Mexico, Javier had told them enough to know that. He looked north instead. Canada.

Hosea summoned up everything he could from all the books he’d read in his long years, all the stories that Lenny and Charles told about what they heard about the land to the north. How they hemorrhaged a quarter of their population down south to America, how the land was even grander and wider than all the United States and still well and truly wild, especially in British Columbia and the new Yukon territory, where there was talk of gold. Hosea would rather die than see any of them become miners, but they could use their money to buy some land and cattle, truly settle down, leave violence behind them, leave the United States and the long arm of its sadistic laws behind.

They couldn’t run straight to Canada, however. They needed to leave  _ tonight _ , they needed a layover. They needed to reunite with those who scattered, they needed money, and Hosea had no time to ride out and fetch the box full of the camp’s savings where Dutch had stashed it. The bank job must have hauled them fifteen grand at least, but that alone wouldn’t be enough to ensure they lived comfortably. Hosea’s eyes scanned the map again looking for a safe place, always drifting back to one spot in particular. He slowly closed his eyes and sighed.

Of course.

Sitting down, he pulled over seven pieces of paper and a pen and wrote “Dear” and then the various aliases of Arthur, John, Javier, Lenny, Charles, and Bill. Hastily, he wrote:

_ I am an old man, and it pains me terribly to stay in the house where so many of our family has passed, including your late mother. With you moved away, I am all alone, and the silence of the house frightens me more than the night. Please do not look for me there, for I am moving in with your Aunt Bessie in the Grizzlies. _

_ I still wish to keep that fishing trip with you I promised, so if you’re ever in the area, swing by Moonstone Pond; I will surely be there nigh daily. _

_ With love, _

_ Grandpa Melvin _

On the seventh piece of paper, he scribbled a hasty haiku:

_Oh my dear Bessie,_  
_We loved a love truer than_  
_The pond loves the moon_

After the letters were all folded and sealed in addressed envelopes, the bank papers were cast into the burning fireplace, and the haiku was left on the table pinned under a flower vase, Hosea tucked the letters and their maps into his suit jacket, then rushed into his room to grab his photos and newspaper clippings, shoving them into his satchel along with whatever medicine he could grab before turning on his heel and striding out the front door, surely to see everyone mounted and ready-

He stopped in his tracks. Susan was wrestling with a wailing Tilly and hitting her over the head, Mary-Beth was curled into a ball on the ground, and Karen was staring blankly into a bottle of gin. Pearson was curled in on himself next to his wagon while Strauss paced aimlessly and anxiously around the camp, mumbling about how they were all going to die, while Swanson tried desperately to console him. Trelawny was perched on a crate, hands folded together over his mouth, eyes wide and glassy and wet. Abigail was wrangling an inconsolable Jack, pitching a screaming tantrum and asking for Uncle Dutch and his Pa. Sadie and Uncle were the only ones doing any packing, Uncle throwing around worried glances while Sadie kept hissing “Buck the fuck up!” at everyone she passed.

Hosea stood on the porch and surveilled them all, a tight coil of anger growing in his gut. “What the hell is going on out here?”

Susan stopped beating Tilly and stepped back, giving the young woman enough space to catch her breath from her sobs and choke out, “W-without Dutch, what’s even the point? There’s n-no way we can make it now!”

Karen rolled her drink around her hands and drawled, “We should just shoot ourselves, save the law the trouble.”

Hosea marched straight up to her with such speed and ferocity that the woman actually started rearing back in alarm; Hosea ripped the bottle out of her hands and shattered it against Pearson’s wagon, then kicked a boot-full of mud at the man in question, who squawked.

“ _ You should all be damned ashamed of yourselves! _ ” Hosea snapped, reeling around to level his gaze on everyone but Jack, who was clinging to Abigail’s skirt and watching Hosea with wide and fearful eyes. “Is this the family that Dutch and I raised up? Is this how you repay him for pulling all of your sorry asses out of the wastes we found you in, to clothe and feed and arm you and raise you up in a family where any  _ one  _ of us would lay down our lives for you? Have you cowardly lot forgotten that?! Is this what you’re choosing to do with all the love that Dutch has given you, that  _ I _ have given you?!  _ Throw it on the ground and spit on it?! _ ”

Hosea marched up onto the porch again and turned around to face them all where they had gathered. “You lot may have given up, but I haven’t given up on you.  _ We _ . Are still.  _ Alive _ . To throw your lives away isn’t just to disrespect  _ Dutch _ . It isn’t just to disrespect  _ me _ . It’s to disrespect everyone beside you, to disrespect our boys who are still out there. I love you all like you are of my own blood - no, more than that, because the hell did my blood family ever do for me? You lot… chose, me. You lot... are  _ my everything _ .” Tears returned to tear-stained faces, but for a different reason. “And I will not  _ rest  _ until you are all safe from this godforsaken country and the badge-wearing demons who are chasing us! If you still care at all for this family we’ve built, if you want to build a life of peace together, then  _ choose me again! _ Choose each other. If not, then you’re a wretched coward, and I’m ashamed I ever knew ya.”

And with that, Hosea spat on the ground and marched off to join Sadie and Uncle in the packing, swiftly followed by everyone else sprinting to pack faster than they’d ever packed before. 

In ten minutes, everything was loaded on the horses and the wagons and Hosea was leading them out of Shady Belle at a leisurely canter, riding Silver Dollar at the head with Sadie riding Bob on the right, Karen riding Old Belle on the left, and Uncle riding Nell II to guard the rear; the wagons in the middle had Susan, Tilly, and Pearson all wielding rifles and shotguns.

“We’ll be taking a winding path,” Hosea called back to the train, “north, east, north, then west, through Bluewater Marsh and Roanoke Ridge. This is Night Folk and Murfree Brood territory. I am aware. But we’ll fare infinitely better with those animals than the Pinkertons any day, and believe me, they’ll be on every road not riddled with inbred ghouls for the surrounding hundred miles. Keep going at this pace, save the horses for when they’ll need to sprint, ‘cause they will. Keep your guns loaded and ready. Keep your lanterns off, and keep quiet.”

The silence behind him was heavy.

Hours passed under the uneasy light of the crescent moon as they traversed Bayou Nwa, taking the back roads past Lagras and into Bluewater Marsh. They occasionally spotted horsemen with lanterns and rifles miles down the various roads, but the bayou was loud that night, the sounds of animal calls and insects drowning out their distant sound of hoofbeats and wagon rattling as they slithered past in the dark.

It wasn’t long after they made it into the marsh that the sounds of the night animals started growing quiet, the scraggly trees bowing over the road encasing them in almost complete darkness. After a few minutes, the nightlife had become silent. Silver Dollar’s ears began swiveling erratically around, his eyes wide, tossing his head. Hosea instantly started scanning the treeline, eyes searching with everything they were worth for threats. Silver Dollar tightened his gate and let out a piercing cry, drawing Hosea’s attention forward, where he made out the silhouettes of two corpses hanging from their necks by a bough in the middle of the road. 

Getting closer, he was able to make out their pale skin and shredded suits, their entrails hanging out, eyes missing, flesh flayed into little ribbons. There were bowler hats atop their heads.

Snapping his gaze back to the undergrowth, he saw skittering, half naked figures crawling towards the road, skin covered in white paint and open sores, hands clutching knives and hatchets.

“ _ Run like hell! _ ” he bellowed back to the wagons, spurring Silver Dollar out of the way, “ _ shoot anything that moves that ain’t on a horse! _ ” 

The gang didn’t need to be told twice. Abigail, Swanson, and Trelawny whipped the frenzied horses into a sprint as Susan, Tilly, and Pearson began firing at the shadows staggering or running on all fours towards them.

“ _ Sadie, Karen, Uncle, on me! _ ”

Sadie was already unleashing a piercing battle cry as she galloped Bob past a string of five, blasting them apart with three shotgun blasts. Uncle and Karen wheeled their horses around to shoot some strays, then rushed after the wagons to catch up with Hosea, all of them shooting the figures lunging or hanging off the wagons that the others had missed. A wet “crunch” sounded under Silver Dollar’s hooves as he trampled over a body that was shot off a wagon, eliciting a pained scream. Hosea rubbed the poor stallion’s neck and murmured “You’re okay, friend,” helping him catch his pace again and sprint to the head of the wagon train, rewarding him with hardy pats.

When it looked like the Night Folk were behind them, Hosea shouted back, “Is everyone all right?!” He was met with a chorus of affirmation, and he took in a deep breath, his body shaking. 

They kept the horses at a full gallop until they got out of the treeline, where Hosea signaled for them all to slow down into a quick trot as they approached the wooden trails covering the open bog, allowing the horses to recuperate their strength and heave for breath. 

Their respite was quickly cast aside when they spotted two lanterns in the distance, coming closer. A fog was rising up something fierce, and Hosea prayed to whatever would listen to a wretched old man that the lanterns would turn away or give them a wide berth, unable to see their features in the haze. 

Their luck had turned since Blackwater, however, the universe taking great pleasure in twisting the knife, and so the two lanterns came straight for them, held by smartly-dressed men on horseback. By the time they got close enough to recognize them as Pinkertons, the Pinkertons had hoisted their lanterns to make out Hosea, their faces contorting in horror once they saw his clothes and his face.

No sooner had they opened their mouths to yell something or other, yanking on the reins and maneuvering their horses, than a hole appeared in the middle of the first one’s forehead and the other one got cut off when a bullet tore through his throat, courtesy of one of Dutch’s Schofields and Susan’s rifle, respectively. The first one fell sideways into the bog and rapidly sank while the other one fell and got his leg caught in the stirrup; both horses spooked and ran off into the bog, and Hosea stared coldly after the one dragging the man behind it, ears sharply attuned to the sound of him gargling to death on his own blood.

Hosea slowly holstered Dutch’s revolver and nodded praise back to Susan, who had the same cold look in her eyes, and continued to lead the train at a rapid trot, patting Silver Dollar’s neck again for enduring the gun shots.

They finally spotted the sign that signaled them leaving the state line of Lemoyne, and Hosea signaled everyone into a languid canter again. More lanterns could be seen down the road towards Van Horn, but Hosea guided everyone left and across the Kamassa River, into the back woods.

After a couple hours of riding, they spotted Pinkerton corpses on either side of the road. Hosea held up a hand signal to be alert, and glanced back to ensure everyone was spreading it back down the line.

No sooner had he looked forward again than he noticed shadowy figures in loose overalls step up on either side of a low ridge that flanked their trail, lighting lanterns. One of them skittered out of a bush and grabbed Silver Dollar’s reins, yanking him to a stop - the train jerked to a stop behind him, the horses nickering anxiously - and started wheezing a laugh as he looked up at Hosea, but cut himself off and reeled backwards once he got a look at him. 

Hosea quickly drew Dutch’s revolvers, aiming the one in his left hand at the head of the man who grabbed Silver Dollar, and aiming the right at the next closest, tilting his head so that he had all of the brood in his sight. He saw them all ready their guns and take aim, and heard his family behind him do the same.

The man to Hosea’s left anxiously wiped his blood-crusted hands on his rancid jeans. “Uh, f-fellers, I don’t know about this one…”

“They in Murfree territory,” one from the ledge growled. “We’s gotta teach ‘em a lesson. And lookie, theys got them some  _ women! _ ” A tittering of chuckles sounded around the pack.

Hosea whistled for their attention, making them stop laughing and look at him in offense. “Listen quick, you damn pigs,” he said, voice low and frigid. “I’ve had a long. Damn. Day. It’s only getting longer, and my patience is  _ thin _ . Either you scurry off back into the holes you crawled out of, or I’ll hang your entrails from the damn trees for your cousins to  _ fuck _ .”

The brood cast nervous glances around each other, and after a long and tense minute, they started lowering their guns and stepping back.

Hosea’s fingers itched to pull the triggers. He  _ ached  _ to announce a quippy one-liner and let hell break loose, to put these sick rapists and cannibals down. 

The sound of Jack’s faint whimpering and the heavy breathing of the non-combatants and disabled folk of his family behind him stilled his hands.

“Sadie, Uncle,” he ordered, “together on the right, keep your guns on them until the others are safely through. I’ve got the ones on the left. Karen, escort the others. If any of them move, or you see anything coming at any of us in the darkness, blow their brains out.” After he heard Uncle finish moving to the other side of the train beside Sadie, with a gentle positioning and squeeze of his legs, Silver Dollar side-stepped to the left and off the trail. “The rest of you, ride hard.”

A smattering of rein whips and “yah!”s sounded the wagons surging forward and accelerating into another full gallop into the distance, Karen guarding the wagon with Jack in it closely. Once the last wagon cleared the ridges and the brood, Hosea spurred Silver Dollar after them, swiftly followed by Uncle and Sadie; all kept their guns trained on the brood, and stared them down until they rounded a corner.

Hosea holstered his off-hand gun and took up his stallion’s reins, galloping him up to the front of the line again to lead everyone out of the ridge, his right hand holding Dutch’s Schofield at his side with the hammer cocked back, eyes scanning the brush on the side of the road.

They ran the horses hard for about twenty minutes before slowing them to a quick trot again, and held the pace for the next several hours as the black sky began tinting itself faint shades of lilac, the horses huffing for breath loudly as sweat rolled off their bodies in sheets even in the sharp chill of the mountain night air.

Finally out of Roanoke Ridge, they carefully guided the horses through skinny and winding mountain passes, Sadie, Uncle, and Karen all guarding the rear, slowing to a walk on the especially treacherous turns where the wagons could easily tip and fall down a cliff. Once they were clear of the rough terrain, the eastern horizon was pink. Hosea’s mouth twisted downwards into a grave frown as he surveyed all the horses, trembling and exhausted from traveling so hard and for so long, the wagon horses especially from pulling such heavy loads up constant inclines.

Finally holstering Dutch’s gun, Hosea ran a hand down Silver Dollar’s neck in a long and soothing caress. “Pinkerton patrols and bounty hunters will only increase in daylight, and we’re in no fighting shape. Get the horses into a canter if you can.”

“Hosea,” Mary-Beth’s voice cried from the back, “I don’t like that, I don’t think they can take it.”

Hosea bit his lip and shook his head, risking a glance back. “I hate it as much as you do, but we’re almost safe. That sun goes up above that horizon, our chances of living grow too damn slim, and I ain’t chancing it. I won’t.”

With that, he rolled his hips forward and gently tapped the stirrups against Silver Dollar’s flank. “Come on boy, please.”

With only a low noise of discomfort, Silver Dollar picked his pace up into a slow lope. He heard Abigail, Swanson, and Trelawny make a storm of clicking noises and “giddy-up!”s; Abigail even started cooing “Come on, you can do it, you’re doing great!”

A couple of the horses bellowed, but they complied, speeding into distressed canters. 

It wasn’t much longer until they spotted O’Creigh’s run, and Hosea’s heart eased at the sight. The lake gently lapped at its shoreline and the morning birds began chirping; deer could be seen delicately stepping across the trail in the dim morning light, pricking their ears up and bounding away once they spotted them. A rabbit ran across the trail, and an elk bayed in the distance. They rounded the lake, and then Hosea abruptly turned off the trail and rode down an overgrown path towards the northwest, looking to anyone else’s eyes but his like just a continuation of nature.

They rode through the brush for a spell, and then finally, finally, reached the steep hill that led to safety. Hosea slowed Silver Dollar into a walk as the horse heaved himself upwards on the path, but Hosea paused when he heard a commotion behind him.

Turning around, he saw that the front wagon’s horses had stopped, heaving for breath with their mouths gaping open and foaming, their legs trembling something fierce, ignoring Abigail’s gentle urgings and Susan’s bitter snipes to “Move, you damn nags!”

“Everyone get down off the wagons!” Hosea called, swinging down off of Silver Dollar and wincing at the stabs of pain that shot through his stiff legs and hips and back and- every part of his body. “Come on, get off, grab the harnesses or push the wagons! We owe them that much!”

Hosea joined Abigail in grabbing the front horses’ bridles and frantically rubbed and patted their necks and shoulders, gently tugging them forward. Susan hopped out of the wagon with a sleepy Jack wrapped up in her arms, sidling away from the group to ensure his rest. The second wagon had Tilly, Mary-Beth, and Swanson tugging on the harnesses and heaping the horses in compliments, with the rear wagon enjoying the spectacle of Strauss trying to orate to the horses why they needed to move forward while Pearson shoved at the back of the wagon, sounding like a cow in heat, Trelawney far too distracted checking on and fussing over Gwydion. Sadie and Karen hopped off their horses and shoved Strauss aside, grabbing the wagon horses’ bridles and encouraging them with handfuls of carrots and sugar cubes. Uncle observed the spectacle from atop Nell II and piped, “Git.”

Slowly, step by step, they all managed to work with the horses to get them up that last hill and crest it to see a quaint overgrown homestead tucked away from the world, with a modest log cabin and lovingly built barn, surrounded by a fenced pasture. To their left, on the top of the ridge overlooking the forest and sprawling land below, where the sun was painting the land in gold, sat two tombstones that read in painstakingly sculpted letters:

  
  


_Infant_  
_Born and Died_  
_1887_

_Bessie Matthews_  
_Loving Wife and Mother_  
_1850-1887_  
_“Love bears all things, believes all things,_  
_hopes all things, endures all things._  
_Love never ends."_  
_1 Corinthians 13:7-8_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **1.) Dutch van der Linde's Last Stand**  
>  **2.) Escape from Saint Denis**  
>  **3.) Escape from Lemoyne**  
>  4.) The Letter


	4. The Letter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warning** for intense, graphic depictions of **grief** and **suicidal ideation,** as well as descriptions of **psychotic symptoms.**
> 
> This chapter marks the official turning point of this fic away from action (for the most part, at least) and far more towards heavy psychological themes. Whereas the canonical Chapter 5 involves even further trauma and chronic stress to the boys, mine is going to be a reprieve where everyone can finally start processing the intense traumas they have suffered, not only from Saint Denis, but the entire year of 1899. Recovery is an ugly and horrifying process, however, and I don't want to shy away from that. (The outcome of denying recovery is the canonical Chapter 6, cough cough)
> 
> I'd also like to add a disclaimer here that, while I killed Dutch in the very first chapter, he's going to remain a fairly major character and will hang as a heavy presence through the rest of this fic. These people haven't properly processed the deaths of Mac, Davey, and Jenny yet, let alone Dutch. I also see Dutch as the keystone of the Red Dead Redemption series, even moreso than John or Arthur, and so removing him from the narrative is... an experience. But I'll have more thoughts on Dutch as the chapters go on.
> 
> For now, it's time to let Hosea grieve.

The first hours on the Matthews Homestead were intensely chaotic.

No sooner had they gotten the wagons circled in the center yard, one of the wagon horses collapsed, her legs shaking out from under her. Everyone started up a great commotion, but Hosea yanked a Miracle Horse Reviver out of his saddle bag, plucked and spat out the cork with his teeth, knelt beside the mare and forced it down her throat, stroking down her neck with a slow and steady hand. Her ears pinned back as she choked down the liquid, but her breathing slowed down and she blinked up at him, her eyes clearing and her ears swiveling. Hosea pat her neck and stood up, giving her room to do the same. He quickly ordered everyone to get all the harnesses, saddles, and bridles off all the horses and set them to pasture, and ushered Tilly and Mary-Beth to run and fill the water troughs.

He stopped Sadie before she could move to untack Bob and pressed the letters into her hand. “Mrs. Adler, see that these get safely to the nearest post office.” Sadie nodded once, pocketing the letters and turning away, but Hosea grabbed her shoulder and gently turned her back to face him. He held her gaze for several long seconds before quietly saying, “I trust you.” 

Sadie’s eyes widened slightly, and she punched him gently in the shoulder with a mumbled “‘Course” before shoving a beet and horse stimulant into Bob’s mouth, swinging up onto him, and riding off.

After taking off Silver Dollar’s bridle and slinging it over his shoulder, he hauled off the saddle and saddle pad and took a step, to which he finally registered the sickly ‘squelch’ of his foot in his shoe. Nose wrinkling, he kicked off his dress shoes and socks in disgust, wiping his refuse-soaked feet in the dew-covered grass and covering them in fresh mud instead. _That_ he could deal with, and his bare feet gave him good traction as he guided everyone to placing their saddles and hanging up their saddle pads in the barn before joining in the heavy lifting and sorting and setting up of tents and supplies. 

After about an hour, his whistling lungs couldn’t take much more - every inhale felt like it might as well have never happened. He set down a crate and then leaned on it, doubled over and gasping for breath, when the cigarette smoke of Mary-Beth wafted its way over to him and his lungs started violently spasming, making him cough something fierce, choking for air.

Susan came down on Mary-Beth like a lightning-bolt and slapped the cigarette out of her hand and stomped on it, hurling the girl onto the ground after it and screaming at her to get to work. Mary-Beth scrambled to her feet and threw a worried look at Hosea before running off to reunite with the girls where they were working.

Swanson came sidling up behind Hosea, hands warily outstretched towards him like he was a wild animal or a glass doll. “You okay, Hosea?”

Susan nearly bowled him over as she snapped “He’s fine, now go do something!”, slinging an arm over Hosea’s shoulders and tucking the other under his arm, guiding him away from the work and towards the log cabin.

The second his feet crossed the barrier and into the house, he tried to choke out that Bessie would ruthlessly mock him for tracking mud in, but caught himself. Susan shooed Tilly out the front door and then shut it firmly behind them, ushering Hosea forward again with a hand splayed out over his chest, rubbing in slow, firm circles. Her wiry, weathered hand was so unlike Bessie’s chubby, calloused one, but Hosea’s gut twisted in on itself all the same, dragging him back to times where Bessie would do the same thing in this house after he overworked himself or a storm came through. Sitting with him in the kitchen next to the wood stove, or holding him on their couch, or wrapping herself around his back on their bed, coaxing air back into his lungs with her soothing hands.

Hosea jerked his head up, only catching the tail end of Susan saying “-ack for you,” and then closing the bedroom door behind him.

Hosea’s eyes glassed over at the sight. By God, it was just how he’d left it. Their bed still stood in the middle of their room, stripped of all the covers, the mattress bare except for an old faded blood stain. A flower vase with a long-decomposed flower sat on the night-stand, along with a lantern. Their chest of drawers and vanity remained, their color faded and weathered from sunlight and moisture, their contents full of old clothes and clutter. The window still had its lace curtains, gently blowing in the breeze from where one of the girls had cracked it open. 

There was a mess of things lined up on the far wall which must have been moved in by the others. For him? He recognized a few things of his. But then what was Dutch’s phonograph doing in there? He looked closer at the boxes and realized almost all of them were Dutch’s, because Hosea kept so little. He leaned on the bed rail and caught his breath. He wasn’t so sure about sleeping with Dutch in the same room where Bessie-

He looked up into the mirror of the vanity and saw his blood-drenched clothes, the entire front of his suit soaked a deep crimson, and saw the bloody handprint on his cheek, smeared across his face. 

Everything came crashing back to him.

A sob wrenched itself out of his chest and he went crashing to his knees, falling forward onto his hands as he wailed and wept. Everything, _everything_ , it was all back. Dutch’s body torn apart, blood pouring out of him and onto Hosea, his entire being trembling in pain as Hosea pleaded for it to not be happening. That smile of his, his hand on his cheek. Those eyes, going empty and lifeless. Everything, everything that man was - was gone from this world. 

Hosea would never have another screaming match with him, never have a petty staring contest; would never feel his meaty, calloused hands rest over or slot into his; would never have Dutch quietly ask Hosea to read a book with him so that they could sneak away in private, Dutch falling into a fitful nap on Hosea’s shoulder to the sound of his voice; would never hold and soothe Dutch through one of his panic attacks, muffling his sounds into his shoulder; Dutch would never squirrel Hosea away from the others when his lungs would have a fit, kneeling down in front of him and quietly pleading with him to breathe, a hand bracing Hosea’s throat; would never laugh, or do that weird dumb growly thing with his voice; would never quote Evelyn Miller or any of his other great philosophers in self-consciously written speeches; would never offer Hosea his bed during chronic pain flares and massage his joints; would never kiss Hosea’s hands or his head or sleep with him heartbeat to heartbeat or join him in teasing their family or go fishing or… or…

Would never…

Hosea bit into his sleeve to try and stifle his wails, feeling all of his emotions spear back through him and shatter all the ice that had gathered in his core, making him feel hollow and empty and broken, bleeding. He tore off the clothes soaked with Dutch’s blood, tore off the gun belt with Dutch’s guns, and flung them into a corner. He crawled towards the line of Dutch’s things and dug around in them until he found one of Dutch’s shirts, trembling hands bringing it up to his face and breathing in deeply, drowning himself in the man’s scent and breaking into a fresh wave of sobs, rocking back and forth with the shirt clutched to his chest, crying until he had no more tears to shed.

He sat there, doing nothing except staring blankly at Dutch’s snot- and tear-stained shirt for he didn’t know how long, body feeling numb and head feeling stuffed. Then, an unsettling sensation built up in his stomach and slithered up his spine, snaking down to his fingers and making them clench, white-knuckled. Slowly, his whole body began shaking, harder and harder, until finally he unleashed an enraged scream and ripped the shirt in half.

“ _You goddamned bastard!_ ” Hosea bellowed, staggering back up onto his feet and tearing the shirt again and again. “ _You fucking idiot!_ ” He threw the shreds across the room with a roar. “ _Why the hell did you do that?!_ Leaving me?! Abandoning me to take care of everyone without you, to clean up the aftermath of your _goddamned PLAN?!_ ” He screamed again and started grabbing the crates of Dutch’s things, hurling them across the room to bounce off the floor or break open on the opposite wall, expensive clothes and golden jewelry and well-loved books flying everywhere.

Hosea kicked a book and yelled, “You just - _had_ to get revenge on Bronte, didn’t you, you fucking piece of shit? Breaking everything you ever stood for?! Had to go keep bringing us _east_ instead of _west_ , like you promised us, like you promised _me?!_ All this talk of _Australia_ and _Tahiti_ and your fucking MANGOES-” he picked up a crate off the floor and hurled it at the wall again, watching it shatter and spill its contents all over the floor. 

“When did you stop listening to me?! When did you start getting so callous with everyone’s lives - with my life, with John’s, with Arthur’s?!” he raged around the room looking for something else to destroy. “I told you that parlay was a goddamn trap, I told you that robbing Cornwall’s train was a bad idea, I told you that the ferry job in Blackwater felt wrong-” he grabbed hold of American Inferno and started ripping pages out of it “-but you never _fucking goddamned listened_ , and now look where we are! And it’s ALL YOUR FAULT!” 

He shot the book at the wall with a loud _bang_ and spun around as if he could find the man in question. “All of your soaring words and pretty speeches! Ohhhh, you got me _good!_ ” He picked up Dutch’s favorite pocket watch and hurled it at the floor with all his strength, watching its components explode apart. “Did you even understand the things coming out of your mouth? Always pulling everyone aside to look into your damn books, sharing passages like a child giddy to show off how smart he was?” He leaned on the bed again to catch his breath. “You and your words… You had me fooled, didn’t you. You built me this image of this, this ideal America… this ‘idea’ of a perfect life that we could have for ourselves and share with others, all of your talk about- about morals, and codes, and honor, making all of us feel special, like you loved us, your incomprehensible prose and your poetry, you built _cathedrals_ of words…”

He slowly sank down to his knees and sat down, leaning against the bedframe. “They were all empty, weren’t they,” Hosea said, voice quiet and flat. “So empty you got lost in them. Deluded everyone. Deluded yourself. And I let you. I let you convince me to keep up this charade, of thinking that we were a couple of heroic cowboys saving the heart of America. Two old men playing at being boys. When did it become an excuse for us both to become just another set of killers?”

His eyes unfocused and he started trembling. “Oh, _Dutch_ … You always got so lost in your own head. I didn’t love you for your words, I loved you for your actions. The small ones. You were always at your best when you weren’t thinking.” He huffed a laugh at that. “Why didn’t I… try harder to save you. Why didn’t… Why didn’t I try harder to pull you out of your head. Why didn’t I stop you, why didn’t I… _insist…_ ”

He saw Dutch’s black velvet vest with its red handkerchief on the floor among a mess of other things from a crate that he broke. He slowly reached out to it and dragged it to his chest. “You didn’t want to do the bank heist. You said, you told me that something felt off, but I didn’t… I… ‘Have a little faith,’ I said… I-I… It was _me_ … _We were supposed to face the future together._ I could have _saved you_ … But instead I killed you. Killed you just like I did _Bessie-_ ”

His voice broke and so did the rest of him, tears welling up to pour down his cheeks again as he clutched the vest to him and rocked with it, the absences of Dutch and Bessie so massive and raw and all-encompassing spreading through him, exposing all of the weak, cowardly, selfish shards of him, illuminating all of his failings, a stupid and wretched old man who couldn’t protect any of the ones he loved, who left no legacy on the world other than death and pain, who would surely desecrate and destroy everything and everyone he touched. Unworthy. Worthless.

“ _It’s all my fault, it’s all my fault, it’s all my fault, it’s all my fault, it’s all my fault, it’s all my-_ ”

He had just begun calculating the distance between him and the nearest gun when he heard and felt a stiff crinkle come from somewhere inside Dutch’s vest. Slowly holding it away from him, he felt around in all of its pockets until he found folded up papers. Warily, he unfolded them, and in his shaking hands he read:

_My dear Hosea,_

_This world knows my penchant for being a fool, and no one knows that greater than you. I have been having a great many thoughts this past week, and also a great many migraines. I still don’t know how much Lenny or Arthur have told you about what happened on and after that trolley in Saint Denis, for in truth my memories are dark and scattered, and even I do not fully know and I am too afraid to ask. The thought of another knowing my own mind better than myself disturbs and frightens me._

_The three days you tended to me after I struck my head are similarly unclear. I fear I may have made a fool of myself to you, as I do remember some instances of not understanding what you were saying and lashing out at you in response. In the struggle to retain my dignity I fear I may have rushed my recovery and strained your patience, for I regret your refusal to join us in going after Angelo Bronte. While I do not regret my assertions that Bronte was an unavoidable obstacle that_ _had_ _to be destroyed, something overcame me that night, a rage so powerful like none I have felt before, not when Jack had been taken, nor when we discovered our other grandchild had been murdered, nor when we found Annabelle. _

_I have grown used to John’s looks of doubt and disrespect, but I saw fear in Arthur’s face that night. Fear and doubt. I can take the distancing of John, and I can take your constant insults and cold shoulders, but to lose all three of you would be my destruction. I cannot bear the thought of seeing your face looking at me as if I am a man you do not recognize, as both the boys have now done._ _I am the same man!_ _But you and our sons do not seem the same to me._

_I have long expected John to betray me, but my thoughts have filled my mind with visions of Arthur and you doing the same, and I do not understand if you truly have changed, or if I am losing my grasp of reality. You have told me as much, and I fear you are correct, as you surely always are. My mind and my heart have been filled with such anger and such fear ever since Blackwater. I have not told you this, but that young mother on the ferry, Heidi McCourt? I can’t remember what I did. Everyone tells me that I shot her, but the story keeps changing, and I do not know what is real or not real. I am missing memories that should be there and I have memories that people told me never happened, and it has gotten worse since that damned trolley._

_I do not even know why I am writing this letter. I think it’s because I am too much of a coward to tell you these things. We are robbing that bank tomorrow, and everyone needs me at my best, yet these thoughts and doubts are poison, and too many people are fanning the flames and I cannot bear much more of it. Everything I am doing, all that I have done, has been to ensure that all of us make it. That you and I_ _make it_ _. That Arthur_ _makes it_ _. That John and his family_ _makes it_ _._

_There are very few things in this world that I am sure are real anymore, so I am writing them here, a physical reality outside of my own head:_

_That despite John’s bull-headedness and smart mouth and cocky attitude, I do love that boy, and have always strived to be a man worthy of his love and trust even if I do not understand him._

_That I love Arthur as my friend, my brother, my own son, and that I wish I could find the words to connect with him, for he is a gift to my life._

_That I love you. And that that love is greater than any descriptor a man could utter to assign it. That it was providence that we met. That you are too hard on yourself. That you do not deserve to pay the price for_ _my_ _choices. That you deserve to_ **_live_ ** _._

_If there is any good left in this sickened, diseased world, it will not take you from me._

_Yours, always and forever,_

_Dutch_

Hosea read over the letter again and again, his hands now still and caressing their thumbs over Dutch’s handwriting, slow and reverent, lingering over the names _John_ and _Arthur_.

“Thank you, friend,” Hosea murmured.

The door banged open and Susan took a moment to take in the scene, wrinkling her nose and making a disappointed, disgusted noise at Hosea sitting in his underwear amongst the mess. “Your bath is all made and warmed up for you, Hosea, if you are quite done looking and acting like one of those Murfrees.”

Hosea chuckled and tucked the letter away in Dutch’s vest again. “You shame me, madam,” he drolled, and heaved himself up slowly with the help of the bedframe before allowing Susan to drag him off by the ear for a hot bath.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I often like to drop what I listened to while writing chapters, and so I thought I'd do that here~ This chapter was written with [All Gone: Overcome](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uvkUmYrMrp0) on repeat.
> 
>  **1.) Dutch van der Linde's Last Stand**  
>  **2.) Escape from Saint Denis**  
>  **3.) Escape from Lemoyne**  
>  **4.) The Letter**  
>  5.) Reunions


	5. Reunions

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warning** for **suicidal ideation**.
> 
> So uhhhhhhhhh, this chapter is... larger than the first four chapters. Combined. I am currently deep into writing chapter 7, and I can tell y'all now that A) the next cluster of chapters are going to be similarly sized behemoths, and B) the lengths of this fic's chapters are absolutely not going to be consistent, haha. Part of the reason why chapter length has increased so much is because these next few chapters deal heavily with the gang just... doing psychological maintenance. There's a Lot of that that needs to happen, so... Big.
> 
> Part of how the gang does psychological maintenance in canon is frequently through song. They're a cutely musical bunch! I find that I can't stop them from singing in this fic. However, reading a song being sung isn't for everyone - I myself struggle reading something musically if I don't know the tune and struggle to remember the tunes I do know - so I thought I'd list the songs that appear in this chapter beforehand so that any of you who don't know their tunes can follow their links to hear them, or play them when you come across them in the fic:
> 
> 1) [Old Scout's Lament](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=d4xrrZcLb3o)  
> 2) [Roll the Old Chariot](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=20n3N1uhztc)  
> 3) [Ring Dang Doo](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Iu3gx5p1h5o)
> 
> There's also a meme in this chapter that appears as a cameo because, quite frankly, Hosea reminds me heavily of my Papa and said meme is very much my Papa's and Hosea's sense of humor. I'll be crediting it down below in the end notes so I don't spoil it~

Hosea buttoned the cuff links of his work shirt, shrugged on and buttoned his blue pinstriped vest, buckled his belt around his jeans, slipped his feet into his boots, tied Dutch’s handkerchief around his neck as an ascot, buckled his gun belt around his waist and tucked Dutch’s Schofields into each holster, shrugged his coat on, wrapped himself up in the scarf Dutch gifted/almost strangled him with when they fled Blackwater, and placed his hat upon his head.

He stepped out of the log cabin and was met with the sorry sight of the gang curled up in their bedrolls and sleeping through the afternoon, careful to remain close to each other and the fires. He spotted Karen sitting on an old stump a little down the path towards the road, struggling to stay awake while clutching her rifle.

Slowly, Hosea made his way up to her side and put his hand on her shoulder, making her jump slightly and look up at him in surprise with sunken, exhausted eyes.

“I’m gonna walk down to Moonstone Pond,” he jerked his head down the path, “and set up some cairns towards this place for the others. Shouldn’t take more than an hour. Think you can last till I get back?”

Karen blinked hard and rubbed at her face, then slapped it a few times. “I ain’t got a choice… H-Hurry back, Hosea. Please?”

Hosea nodded and placed a heavy hand on her head, making her relax, then turned and made his way down the path and to the road.

He crouched around in the bushes and the shadows for a stretch before emerging proper, slowly crossing the trail towards the pond and sucking in a deep breath of the crisp mountain air, listening to the symphony of animals and splashing of fish. He walked around the perimeter of the pond, sorting out what rocks he would use in his head, and then set to work.

He’d worked out with Dutch long ago that the gang should have to memorize certain codes for if they were ever separated under a lot of heat and had to leave markers for their location. His personal contribution was “inverse cairns” - building cairns pointing in the opposite direction of where they should go. And so, that was what he did, gathering the largest flattest rock he could find and scooting it over near the trail by the pond, then stacking a slightly smaller rock atop that one, and then another, and finally topping it with a rather cube-shaped rock. That marked the first in the series. The rest didn’t have to be nearly as big, and only needed three stones. He made three in short order, leading away from the homestead, before hearing trotting hoofbeats come down the trail. He doubled-over his back and shuffled his feet in tiny steps, buttoning his coat to hide Dutch’s guns, moving around as if he were a man far older, his hat casting a shadow over his face and his body language screaming “feeble, weak, non-threatening.”

Four riders had passed him and paid him no notice as he scooted and moved around his rocks, shuffling his feet and occasionally letting out little conspiratory “teehee”s in the reediest old man voice he could muster. Sure enough, he had finished the first cairn trail and was starting on the second one further down the road to point the others up the hill by building the cairns down towards the valley, when a pair of quick, purposeful hoofbeats came down the road towards him. He cast a glance up from under the brim of his hat to see two men in suits and bowler hats wearing Pinkerton badges atop a pair of glisteningly groomed geldings. He paid them no mind, continuing to gleefully shuffle after his rocks.

“Whoa,” stated one, slowing his horse and companion to a stop. “You there, Sir. What are you doing?”

“I’m building cairns!” Hosea chirped in his high, wizzened voice, pitter-pattering his feet around a large rock before scooting it.

“Cairns?” asked the second one, who sounded younger. 

“Cairns,” Hosea nodded sagely, shuffling backwards to assess the position of his rock, then shuffling forwards again to scoot it two inches to the left.

“What… are cairns?”

The older Pinkerton let out a sigh. “They’re… trail-markers or something?”

“Right you are, sonny-boy!” Hosea chirped, shuffling towards another rock.

The older one’s voice reflected his squinting eyes as he asked, “What are you building cairns _for?_ ”

“Why, to lead to the fish!” 

The younger one made a confused noise. “Shouldn’t they… point towards the pond, then?”

Hosea hefted a second rock onto the first with a squeak. “What, those fish?” He looked towards Moonstone Pond and spat on the ground. “Nuh-uh, no sir, those fish ain’t fit for fishin’, they’ll make your cock shrink. Any fish are better than those fish.”

“I…” the younger one started, sounding even more confused.

The older one groaned. “Look, Sir, we’re looking for an escaped outlaw and gunslinger, name of Hosea Matthews. He’s the leader of the last of the Van der Linde gang. He’s an older gentleman, silver hair, with a tall, wiry build. He’s known as a master manipulator and is extremely dangerous.”

“I don’t know no Hoochie Matchews.”

“No, _Hosea Matthews_.”

“Horsie?!” He stacked a third rock.

“ _Ho - se - a._ ”

“No habla the espanyol.”

The older Pinkerton let out a growl, then changed tactics. “Okay, let’s try this. Have you seen anything suspicious around these parts, Sir?”

Hosea kept shuffling and scooting rocks, pointing vaguely down the trail. “Last night, and night before, there was three women, walkin’ down the trail that way. I _saw ‘em!_ ” He flapped his hands at the detectives for emphasis. “I said ‘Hey, you three women!’” He mimed waving at them. “‘Why are y’all walkin’ down the trail that way? There ain’t nothin’ down there!’ And then they flew away, I said ‘Naw, they was some birds.’” 

There was silence from the Pinkertons as he stacked the last rock, and then the younger one broke into a fit of giggles. Hosea cast a glance up long enough to catch the older one pinch the bridge of his nose and let out a long sigh.

“Hey, do you need a ride home, Sir?” the younger one prompted as Hosea leaned on his latest cairn and coughed. “You’re an old fella and there’s a lot of ruffians and bears out here.”

“Agent Bernstein, we don’t have the time-” the older one tried to interrupt.

“Why, what a fine young man!” Hosea trilled. “A right gentleman you are! I’m staying with an old army buddy of mine, his home’s down ‘round O’Creigh’s Run. A ride would save me a day’s work of walkin’!” And with that, he began to shuffle towards the young Pinkerton’s horse.

The young one - Agent Bernstein - smiled and dismounted his horse. “Here Sir, let me help you up.”

“So kind, so kind!” Hosea crooned as the older Pinkerton glared daggers into the middle distance. Agent Bernstein cupped his hands for Hosea to step up on to get on his horse, and Hosea braced a hand on the horse’s hip before making a grand show of not being able to lift his feet more than an inch off the ground with lots of grunts and wheezes.

“Why, that’s all right Sir, here, let me just-” Agent Bernstein grabbed him around his hips and then hoisted him up with great effort onto the horse’s rump behind the saddle. Hosea made sure to tuck his head into his scarf and keep his back stiffly bowed as he was hoisted, and nodded his thanks as he situated himself behind the saddle for Agent Bernstein to climb back on.

Once Agent Bernstein was situated, the older Pinkerton looked over his shoulder and barked, “O’Creigh’s Run?”

“Yessir! I’ll giva ya a holler when I spot it!”

With a growling sigh, the older Pinkerton kicked his horse into a canter, and Agent Bernstein followed after him, Hosea gently holding his waist to ride side-saddle.

Agent Bernstein kept a respectful distance behind the older one, but still called out, “Why are you being so cross about helping this old man, Mr. Jameson?”

“We’re not being paid to help every stranger we come across, Bernstein,” Agent Jameson snapped.

“Well what does that have to do with it?”

“You’re not some heroic cowboy from the penny novels, kid. You’re an agent for the Pinkerton Detective Agency! We hunt down and capture or kill _monsters_ , and I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re after one of the most degenerate, cut-throat gangs out there. They’ve created thousands - _thousands_ , Bernstein! - of orphans and widows. They massacred good people in Blackwater, they butchered the law in Valentine and Rhodes, killed that whole Braithwaithe family, or damn nearly, they burned down plum near half of Saint Denis-”

“I get it, I get it…”

“Do you get it?! My brother hasn’t reported in since he was sent out last night, and he might be fine, or he might have a bullet in his head! If we stop to help every stranger we see, that’s all the more time for us to miss something, for that damned gang to give us the slip and kill more people! What if during this little detour, those _psychopaths_ Matthews and Morgan kill two people? Six? My _brother?_ ”

“I… I’m sorry…”

“I’m just glad we gutted that Dutch van der Linde in the streets like the dog he is. Was.” Agent Jameson laughed.

Hosea’s fingers spasmed into Agent Bernstein’s sides, but he covered it with a coughing fit. Agent Bernstein ducked his head and stayed quiet for the rest of the ride.

When they rounded the lake’s corner and the small, modest cabin came into view, Hosea weedled “That’s the old coot’s house right up there! And oh, there he is outside!”

Agent Jameson pulled his horse to a stop on the road while Agent Bernstein slowed his horse to a walk and approached the man cinching his saddle to his horse. At their approach, he tensed, and stood up to square off who was approaching him.

“Who are you?”

Agent Bernstein stopped and got off his horse to help Hosea hop down, who then immediately shuffled off towards the man. “Don’t you recognize me, Hamish? I only been gone since mornin’!” He tilted his head up enough for Hamish to catch his eyes under his hat and winked.

Hamish Sinclair’s eyes widened and a beaming smile split onto his face. “Well, I was wondering where you got off to, old friend!” He walked over to Hosea - the limp from his wooden leg barely noticeable - and slung an arm around his shoulders. “Who do I have to thank for returning this bastard to me?”

Agent Bernstein shyly tipped his hat. “Uh, Agent Abraham Bernstein, Sir. Of the Pinkerton Detective Agency.”

Hosea broke out of Hamish’s arm and hurriedly shuffled his feet back over to Agent Bernstein, rooting around in his pocket and shoving an opened box of crackers into it. “There you go sonny, for helping me. Gotta keep your weight up for monster huntin’ with that Pinky Toe Agency!” And with that, he honked the young man’s nose, startling a laugh out of the young Bernstein.

“Why thank you, Sir!” He chuckled, tucking the crackers into his suit breast pocket before swinging back up onto his horse. “Say, Sir? May I ask your name?”

Hosea patted Bernstein’s leg. “Moshe Benjamin.”

Agent Bernstein nodded. “I’m glad you’re home safe, Mr. Benjamin.” He turned away and steered his horse towards Agent Jameson.

“Say, Abe?” Hosea called, still bent over and hiding under his hat and his scarf.

Agent Bernstein looked back.

“Shalom!”

Agent Bernstein’s face softened considerably. “Shalom, friend.” He turned away towards Agent Jameson, who shook his head disapprovingly and rode off without waiting for him. Agent Bernstein watched him ride away with a clouded expression, but threw back one last smile and wave at “Moshe” and Hamish before following after him.

Hosea waited until they were both out of sight for a solid thirty seconds before slowly straightening and rolling his shoulders back, face falling from its scrunched up friendly squint into a frigid glare at the spot they disappeared into. He didn’t have time to get lost in his thoughts, however, because Hamish nearly bowled him over in a powerful hug once he saw Hosea let his guard down.

“Goddamn, Hosea! It’s been a while!”

Hosea mustered a weak smile and chuckle, patting Hamish heavily on the back and returning the hug. “It sure has been, neighbor.”

Hamish held him out at arm’s length and shook him. “How have you been?!” He looked Hosea up and down. “You look like shit!”

“‘Cause I’ve _been_ shit,” Hosea muttered, rubbing his eyes. A migraine was settling into his head and every vertebrae in his back seemed like it was screaming, along with his bad knee and all the joints in his hands feeling like someone was trying to pop them apart with a butter knife.

Hamish was quiet for a minute, squeezing Hosea’s shoulder reassuringly. “I haven’t seen you like this since Bessie passed.” Hosea nodded minutely and hugged his other arm around his middle. “Here, why don’t you come inside, have a coffee and a meal with me, we can talk about it.”

When Hamish tried to lead him off, Hosea shrugged out of his hold and shook his head, lowering his arms and blinking the moisture out of his eyes. “Wish I could, Hamish, really I do, but I gotta be getting back.”

Hamish nodded, working his lip. “Well here, you know what? Let me give you a ride on ol’ Buell over here. Will you accept that kindness?”

Hosea cracked a smile. “I can accept that, yeah.” He followed Hamish over to the old golden Dutch Warmblood and paused as the man scratched behind Buell’s ears, making the horse’s eyelids droop down in pleasure. “Good seeing you again, too, ya big bastard. You miss Silver Dollar?” Buell swiveled his ears back and gave Hosea the stink eye, coaxing a soft chuckle out of him.

Hamish smirked and rubbed Buell’s face. “Yeah, the only other horse who bullied the bully, huh? Huh?!” He ruffled Buell’s bangs to rile a long-suffering snort from the horse and then climbed up into the saddle with a hearty guffaw, then reached his hand down to hold out to Hosea. Hosea nodded his thanks and used it to haul himself up and over Buell’s rump. “You got a firm grip there?”

“Yeah,” Hosea said absently.

“No jokes or impressions?” Hamish let out a slow exhale. “Oh, it must be bad.”

Hamish urged Buell out and onto the road at a slow trot, then coaxed him into an antsy canter. Hosea sagged against Hamish’s back and slowly blinked, every wind sigh and twig snap and bird chirp and distant animal call rapidly becoming sharp and deafening as the sunlight was becoming serrated and blinding.

Hamish tapped Hosea’s knee.

Hosea shook his head. “Huh?” 

“I said, so how far we goin’?”

“To the homestead.”

Hamish gave a surprised glance over his shoulder but said nothing. Hosea felt vaguely nauseous.

It didn’t take long for Hamish and Buell to expertly navigate around the trail and then slip into the treeline when no eyes were on them. They charged up the hill and quickly found the path to the homestead, slowing only at Karen’s slurred shriek of “Whozere?!”

“It’s me,” Hosea called, peeking out from behind Hamish. Karen almost collapsed in relief. Hosea turned back to Hamish and patted his back. “Thank you, old friend.”

“Always a pleasure,” Hamish replied softly as Hosea gently slid off of Buell. “Who… Are these… Your gang, Hosea?” he asked, gesturing at Karen and the distant slumbering figures in the yard. 

Hosea nodded, swaying on his feet and rubbing at his eyes. Buell stamped at the ground.

Hamish nodded slowly, gently chewing his lip. “Well, I hope you introduce me to ‘em sometime. If you need any help, or if you wanna talk, you know where I live.”

An iota of tension left Hosea’s body as he looked back up at his friend. “Thank you, Hamish. You be safe now.”

Hamish tipped his hat at Hosea and rode off on Buell as Hosea approached Karen, who was desperately trying to keep her arms from drooping to the ground. Hosea noted with surprise that she was shaking as he got close.

“I- I’m sorry Hosea, I ain’t drunk and I never nodded off on purpose, I been trying my best to protect everyone, I’m _sorr-_ ”

“Hey,” Hosea interrupted, placing a firm hand on her shoulder, “none of that. What are you saying?”

Karen couldn’t meet his eyes, her sweaty and unkempt hair covering her own. “I don’t want nobody to die ‘causa me.”

“Sit with me,” Hosea said, lowering himself down onto the stump and patting the empty space beside him. Karen’s hands clenched around her rifle before she slowly sat down to join Hosea, hip-to-hip. “Now what brought this on?”

Karen took a few minutes to find the words. Hosea waited patiently, staring down the path.

Karen opened and closed her mouth a few times before saying, “I… I been wondering, have been for a while now… what the hell we’ve been doing. And why we’re even doing it. But I don’t see nothing in it anymore. Ever since Sean died-” a tear slipped out and fell down her cheek, and she had to take a deep breath. “Things ain’t good. Only I think they never have been. All those ‘good times’ in the past, they all feel fake, and there ain’t no ending for us I can think of that would be worth all this death and bullshit, and I feel like a fool and like nothin’s worth anything anymore and- and with Dutch gone all y’all seem so mortal and fragile and I know it’s just a matter of time ‘fore I see all y’alls brains blown out and it wouldn’t be worth nothin’ a-and I just wanna put a gun in my mouth and quit everything.” Her shoulders hitched as she gasped back sobs.

Hosea was too tired for tears of his own, but his heart ached, deep and raw. He slowly cupped Karen’s head in his hand and guided it to his chest, letting her break down and fall apart, rifle falling to the ground so she could clutch at his vest.

They sat like that for a while, Hosea holding Karen’s head as she sobbed and gasped into the fur of his coat.

When her sobs finally quieted down, Hosea ran a hand through her hair and said, “Thank you for telling me, child.”

Karen leaned back and sniffled, brushing her hair out of her eyes. “Why? I ain’t done nothin’ but burden you.”

Hosea shook his head, eyebrows knitting upwards. “No, Karen. You telling me this is anything but a burden, it tells me you care enough about us that you’re willing to seek help. What you just did… makes you very brave. Braver than me.” He huffed and tilted his head down, feeling the weight of Dutch’s letter in his shirt pocket. “Braver than Dutch.”

Karen made an incredulous noise. “...Dutch?”

Hosea nodded and took her hand in his. “What you realized at Clemen’s Point is what I realized at Blackwater. Only I’m far stupider and stubborner than you are, so I kept trying to make a go of it, but…” He sighed. “All of us have been struggling with these things. And hiding it, and denying it. Have you noticed how Arthur freezes up every time someone says ‘O'Driscoll’ these days? Or how Charles gets even more quiet than he already is around alcohol and does a tic with his hands, or how he disappears after one of us gets drunk and angry?” Karen shook her head. “Did you know Dutch used to have nervous attacks?”

Karen’s eyes grew wide. “Different than his temper tantrums?”

Hosea bowed his head. “Sometimes all the fear stored up in his body would just… randomly explode and try to eat him.” He leaned in close and whispered conspiratorially, “Now don’t tell him I told you that, or he’ll kill me.”

He got a surprised huff of laughter out of Karen, then rubbed his thumb over her knuckles and continued, “As for the worth of what we’re doin’...” He shook his head. “You’re right about that. All this killing and robbing doesn’t equal up to anything other than killing and robbing, and money doesn’t feel like it’s worth a damn if we lose the people we love getting it.” Karen’s expression turned dark and she looked away. Hosea tapped a careful finger on her temple, making her look back. “You’ve found the wisdom in you to figure out what the real worth to what we’ve been doing is.”

Karen’s mouth twisted into a frown. “Don’t know what the hell that would be.”

Hosea tucked a lock of her hair behind her ear. “For me, it’s things like being able to watch a wavy-haired blonde girl become a beautiful, strong, intelligent woman, who’s looked up to by a certain pair of young ladies as a role model and a hero.”

Karen closed her eyes. “Those two keep me going.” She suddenly opened them and looked at Hosea, squeezing his hand, a wary smile twitching onto her face. “And so do you.”

Hosea chuckled and patted her knee. “I finally realize that we need to stop using all our energy to destroy things and start focusing on creating ‘em… All this talk of money, of living free, American ideals and all that nonsense, none of that matters.” Hosea looked over his shoulder at the others, still sleeping uneasily in their tight circle, and Karen followed his gaze. “Love… matters. This family is the only thing that matters.” His gaze fell. “I just wish I had acquired this wisdom at less of a price.”

“Hey,” Karen said gently, headbutting his shoulder. “Focus on the here and now. You _saved_ all of us, Hosea, and once the boys get back to us… I’m sure you’ll find a way to get us out of all this. You ain’t out of tricks yet, old man.”

It was Hosea’s turn to huff out a surprised laugh, looking up at Karen with a genuine smile. “Now who’s giving the advice, here?” Karen wiggled her nose at him.

Hosea stood up and picked up the rifle, slinging it over his shoulder before turning and ruffling Karen’s hair. “I’ll take watch for a while. You go get some rest, get some food in your belly and get clean.”

Karen batted his hand away and stood up, body weighed down by all the exhaustion and fear and sadness and anger she carried, but the corners of her mouth still managed to pull up into a smile. “Thank you, Hosea. I…” her breathing quivered, “I really, _really_ needed this.” The implication of if things were left otherwise were left unspoken.

Hosea cupped her face in his hands. “I’m proud of you, Karen.” Karen darted forward and stole a quick hug, then sleepily stumbled off. Hosea watched her fondly for a few seconds before easing himself down onto the stump again, rifle out and resting on his lap, his expression falling and pinching into one of exhaustion and pain again as he stared down the path.

He remained that way for hours and hours, drifting in and out of his body, as the sun crossed the sky and sank towards the horizon, making the sky fade into pinks and oranges and reds. Through all that time, he thought of all the ways Arthur, Charles, Javier, John, Lenny, and Bill could be captured or killed or worse, images of their bloody and broken bodies spiraling through his mind, interspersed with the sight of Dutch’s mutilated one and the feeling of caked, dried blood on his skin.

He was roused from his fog when the sun was almost entirely below the horizon, the warm orange light filtering through the tree leaves serving as its final send-off. He thought he heard something. As he strained his ears, he managed to make out three sets of hoofbeats. He quickly stood and readied his rifle, fingers on the hammer and the trigger. Three shadowy figures on horseback emerged from the trees, and Hosea’s heart leaped into his throat, choking back any orders for identification he could have given.

It was quickly rendered a moot point, however, when the sun’s dim light finally struck their features to reveal Arthur on Killer, Charles on Taima, and Javier with Molly O’Shea on Boaz. All of whom were dressed as three monks and a nun, respectively.

A beaming smile broke onto Hosea’s face as he set the rifle on the ground and rushed forward, swiftly met by Arthur who vaulted off of Killer and ran to crush him in a hug. In that moment Hosea could have sworn that feeling the weight and sound and solidness of Arthur in his arms added a year to his lifespan.

“You’re alive,” Hosea wheezed, clutching Arthur’s robe in his fists.

Arthur squeezed him harder and shook a little. “Boy, is it good to see you, Hosea.”

Charles walked up with a large bag of money in his hands. “We managed to hold onto the ca-”

Hosea gently elbowed Arthur to signal him to let go so he could slap the bag out of Charles’s hands and yank him into a hug. Charles stiffened at first, but relaxed quickly and awkwardly hugged him back, sharing an amused look with Arthur.

“I don’t care about the damned money,” Hosea ground out. “You beautiful bastards, how did you get out of there?”

Javier finished helping an ashen Molly dismount from Boaz before sauntering up to Hosea, arms up and waving his fingers towards himself to demand a hug. “Well, we were hiding in this abandoned apartment building when- _¡ay!_ ” He yelped, cringing away when Hosea whipped his hat off and ruffled his hair, breaking into laughter as he snatched his hat back. “ _Perdóname,_ as I was saying, it turns out we weren’t the only three bozos trying to squat there. These two boys were sleeping there, and I thought they’d go screaming and rat us out, but Arthur immediately goes, ‘Hey, it’s you kids! You doin’ all right?’ Turns out they used to be prospective slaves for whatever sick mainland pendejos had a thirst for them, but Arthur freed them-” Javier gently punched Arthur in the shoulder and flashed him an admiring smile “-so they got excited when they saw him, and I could actually translate back and forth-”

Charles interrupted with “The children helped us sneak to a Catholic church where a monk and nun helped us escape.”

Javier held his arms out in offense. “Brother, you’re no fun.”

Arthur noticed Hosea’s skeptical look, so he clarified with, “This monk and this nun are real strange folk, mind. I… helped them a good bit in Saint Denis, and they ain’t the judgemental type, so they helped me back.”

“Their names were Brother Dorkins and Sister Calderón,” Charles supplied. 

Hosea chuckled incredulously and made a point to squeeze or pat each of their shoulders as he said, “I’ll have to find a way to thank them for returning you three to us. We learned that Saint Denis caught fire, and I…” Hosea’s voice died out.

Javier rolled his eyes. “We almost did die in the fire because Charles wanted to stop and help.”

Molly finally spoke up and slapped Javier. “And right good thing he did, ya dumb bastard, else I woulda died!”

Arthur gestured vaguely at her. “She was trapped in a saloon so drunk I thought she was flammable.”

Molly whirled on Arthur next, her eyes watering. “Don’t ye be judgin’ me, Arthur Morgan! My life was _destroyed!_ ”

“Molly,” Hosea interrupted softly. Arthur, Charles, and Javier quieted and took a step back as Hosea approached her and offered her a hand, “Are you all right? Are you hurt?”

Molly stared at him sullenly for a few seconds before dropping her gaze. “No. I just… I…”

“Did the boys tell you… what happened?”

Molly’s face contorted into one of agony and a sob escaped her throat. “I was in there tryin’ to drink myself to death and wishin’ Dutch would die.” Javier stiffened and clenched his fists, but Hosea quickly held up a finger as tears rolled down Molly’s face. “I _hated_ him… I still do, that fucking bastard, but I didn’t want… Not like _that…_ ” She buried her face in her hands.

Hosea gently pointed her in the direction of the others. “Go. Rest.” Molly nodded mutely and hurried off.

“That fucking bitch,” Javier hissed.

Hosea whirled on him. “You let her be.” After Javier ducked his head and looked away, Hosea softened again and turned to face them all. “This is supposed to be a happy moment. You three…” Hosea’s expression began crumbling. “I thought I’d sent you to your deaths.” Arthur placed a reassuring hand on his back as Charles folded his hands in front of him. “Charles.” The man lifted his chin. “Thank you, son. I knew I could trust you to get yourself and these two out alive.”

Charles made some kind of expression, but Hosea felt too pained and nauseous to figure it out. Instead, Charles asked, “Did the others make it?”

Hosea nodded and swayed on his feet. “I didn’t lose anyone else. Well, I cut Micah loose-” Javier gestured at the sky and mouthed _Gracias a Dios_ “-but nobody died. John, Lenny, and Bill, I scattered before we moved the camp. They haven’t showed- hunh…” Hosea suddenly pitched sideways, falling into a whistling, croaking, gasping coughing fit.

Arthur lunged forward and caught him as Javier jolted and Charles stiffened; Charles’s tone slipped into alarm as he asked, “Hosea, when was the last time you ate? Or slept?!”

Hosea blinked and clutched at Arthur’s arm, neck and back straining as he heaved for air and quaked from the force of his coughs. He finally gasped enough air to manage, “I reckon it must have been…” He endured a wave of pain that chiseled through his temple and eye socket. “A couple- hours- the night before the- bank robbery?”

Arthur’s eyes nearly bugged out of his head. “ _Christ alive_ , Hosea, what are you doing to yourself?!”

“ _Protecting my damn family_ ,” Hosea snapped, trying to find his footing again. He gasped in a breath and yelled, “Now I’m not resting until Bill, Lenny, and John make it back!”

“The hell you are, old man!” Arthur yelled back, flinging off the robe covering his regular clothes before scooping Hosea up and slinging him over his shoulder like a prize buck.

“You mule!” Hosea slurred, trying to whack him on the back but instead gently patting his butt. “Put me down!”

“Mr. Matthews,” Charles started nervously, ignoring Javier laughing his ass off, “I’m happy to take up watch. We can make sure everything at camp’s okay, you _really should_ rest.”

“Listen to the man,” Arthur griped as he started walking off.

“But I need…” more dry gasps “I _need…_ ”

“ _You need rest_ ,” Arthur growled.

Hosea grumbled general unpleasantries amongst his gasps and coughs as Arthur walked him across the yard and past the camp, where most people were starting to stir awake, having thoroughly destroyed their sleeping schedules. They entered the log cabin, where Arthur hesitated, peeking into the second bedroom where Abigail and Jack were still sleeping wrapped around each other.

“The other room,” Hosea coughed.

Arthur quietly slipped into the main bedroom and shut the door behind them, gently setting Hosea onto the bed - with sheets. And a pillow. And the floor showed no signs of Hosea’s earlier rampage. Hosea mused about how Susan must have been meddling in there as Arthur studiously took off Hosea’s hat and scarf, then tugged off his coat before working at his gun-belt, pausing as he came face-to-face with Dutch’s Schofields on Hosea’s hips, fingers stilling.

Hosea squared his jaw, struggling with all his might to take deep breaths to suppress the rasp in his lungs. “I can’t let anyone else die.” Arthur tore his eyes off the guns and forcibly yanked Hosea’s gun belt off, setting it down gently on the night-stand. “I need to be there for-”

“You need to be there for _yourself_ ,” Arthur choked out, fixing him with a pained, wet-eyed stare. “I ain’t losing you too.” He bit his lip. “I won’t. Y’hear?”

Hosea closed his eyes and a tear slipped down his cheek. He stayed silent, lungs finally calming as Arthur knelt down and tugged off his boots, one by one. After that was done, Arthur unbuttoned his vest, and after that was off and tucked away, Arthur reached for the ascot-

“No,” Hosea said quickly, hand flying up to protect it. Arthur flinched his hand back, and Hosea felt a pang of guilt. “It’s… Dutch’s,” Hosea whispered.

Arthur relaxed and nodded, instead helping Hosea lie down on the bed. He reached for something at the foot of the bed - Hosea’s heart broke impossibly more when he saw that it was the quilt Bessie made - and used it to tuck him in. Instead of leaving, Arthur hesitated for a long minute before sitting down on the bed.

“I need you to promise me something,” Arthur said quietly.

“Hmm?” Hosea grunted, all the pain and exhaustion and sadness of the room dragging him off towards an unfit sleep.

Hosea felt Arthur’s hand settle on his chest, and he turned his head to meet the boy’s eyes, for a moment looking as young and scared as the fourteen-year-old whose wrist Hosea snatched in that alleyway so long ago.

Arthur swallowed before saying, “Don’t follow him.”

The silence that stretched between them was deafening, outdone only by the weight of too many ghosts.

Slowly, Hosea snaked his hand out from under the quilt to take Arthur’s hand in his, twining their fingers together. He held Arthur’s gaze carefully and squeezed his hand. “I will never abandon you,” he promised, repeating an oath he swore twenty years ago.

Arthur let out a held breath and nodded, satisfied. “Get you some sleep,” he whispered, gently tugging their hands apart and leaving the room, clicking the door gently behind him.

Hosea dreamed. He saw a silhouette of a father on top of a hill of wildgrass, playing with a shadowy child who slowly multiplied into two, then four, then ten, before the sun grew so burning and harsh that the children disintegrated like puffs of smoke in the wind as the world caught fire and the man was consumed in flame. 

\--

Hosea woke up with the sunrise the next day, familiar scents pulling him away from the vague horrors that haunted his dreams, making him feel warm and secure. He continued to lay in bed for a while, indulging in fantasies that he’d wander into the kitchen to find Bessie making eggs, who’d then usher him into a chair and join him with a plate full enough for two, the both of them sharing a fork to feed each other with as they discussed the weather and the chores for the day; or walk outside to find Dutch sitting under a shady tree with a book in his lap, who’d then smile and call him over to read a few passages with him, eventually passing it off to Hosea to continue reading as he oozed down into his lap.

Eventually, the rising sun heating his skin through the window felt like a warning, and Hosea became aware of each second that ticked by. He shook off his daydreams to settle back into his usual clinging haze of numb anxiety as he bolted upright and shuffled out of bed.

After relieving himself and getting dressed and bundled up once more, he took care to force himself to sit in the kitchen and eat a breakfast of peaches and biscuits to keep his strength up. His hunger still hadn’t returned, and his pain still swam through his body and stopped up his joints, but he felt remarkably better than he did before Arthur carried him off to bed like an unruly child.

Hosea opened the front door to the cabin and breathed in the crisp morning air as it blew to greet him. There were dark gray clouds on the horizon and the wind was restless, but the camp seemed to be in particularly good spirits, considering the circumstances. A tentative hope clung in the air as folk did the morning chores or explored the property, chatting quietly with each other. Hosea spotted Sadie back safe and sound, perched on a box with her knees spread wide, cleaning her guns. She caught him looking and smiled at him, tipping her hat, before Hosea was completely distracted by the source of everyone’s good mood.

Hosea and John locked eyes on each other at the same time, and John’s face beamed into an expression of ecstatic relief as he bolted across the yard towards Hosea, boots kicking up grass behind him. Lenny spotted Hosea half a second later, launching into a dead sprint after John. 

“ _Boys!_ ” Hosea yelled, stepping a foot back to brace himself for impact as John and Lenny both slammed into him, knocking out a soft _oof_. He gave them both a firm squeeze before they sprang away, John clapping Hosea hard on the back as Lenny removed his hat.

Lenny looked around at their surroundings in open relief. “I’ve been twitching to get out of Lemoyne for months now, but I never could have imagined we’d end up in a place as beautiful or peaceful as this.” He looked back at Hosea and bowed his head, clenching his hat in his hands. “I saw the, uh, graves… It’s a real honor that you brought us to this place, Hosea.”

Hosea reached out and squeezed Lenny’s shoulder, giving him a light shake. “Considering I never sold my property and only a handful of souls know it exists, I figured it was time for it to host my family again.”

Lenny’s face softened as he replaced his hat, and John massaged at Hosea’s shoulder to get his attention. “ _Really_ , Hosea…” John said quietly, “I know how much this means. Thank you.” His eyes darted to the house. “And thank you for letting me and my family stay in the other room. Abigail told me you insisted when y’all first got here, and I…”

A weight settled in Hosea’s chest, and his smile twisted into something bittersweet. “I’d have it no other way.” John offered him a sad smile, and Hosea pulled them both in for a hug again, who returned it gladly. “I’m just glad you boys are safe.”

Lenny huffed out a relieved sigh. “A part of me feared that John and I might be the only survivors.”

Hosea opened his mouth to reply, but he spotted Abigail storming towards him, so instead he said, “Uh oh.”

John whirled around and snapped to attention as Lenny bowed himself out and away, smart lad.

“Hosea,” Abigail snapped, stomping right up to Hosea and stopping inches away from his nose. “What’s the plan?! What’re we doin’?”

John cleared his throat and took his place behind her shoulder. “She has a point. Folk are real scared.”

Hosea let out a slow sigh. “Come with me, into the house.” He looked around the camp for Arthur and found him doing his rounds of checking in on everyone. “Arthur! Come over here!” Arthur blinked at him from where he was talking to Pearson and hurried over.

The three kids followed behind him, Abigail with tight anxiety in her step and John with an antsy unease, while Arthur held the same steady gate as always. Jack was playing with Tilly in the distance, blowing grass blade trumpets as Cain snoozed on the boy’s lap, and Hosea’s heart eased at the sight. 

“How has Jack been taking all this?” Hosea asked quietly, opening the front door and ushering them in.

Abigail shot him a sharp glare. “‘Bout how you think he would after he’s already seen so much death. He’s been getting night terrors about the O’Driscoll raid and about what happened to Kieran, now he’s been asking me if the agents cut Dutch’s head off.”

“Abigail…” John pleaded quietly as Hosea sighed, expression growing pinched. Arthur clenched his jaw and looked at the ground.

“No!” Abigail screeched. “This is too much! This _life_ is too much, and the boy can’t take much more of it!” She locked pleading eyes on Hosea. “When is that boat to Tahiti leaving? We’re so far inland now, Hosea, how’re we-”

“Please,” Hosea said quietly, “sit.” He gestured at the kitchen table and wandered off into his bedroom. He returned in less than a minute with two maps and his journal, laying them out on the table in front of them, opening his journal to the page of the camp savings. John, Abigail, and Arthur leaned over them from their seats. “We’re not taking any boat.”

John’s brow furrowed. “Huh? But…”

Hosea tugged on the national map and traced the eastern seaboard. “Pinkertons will either have agents or law on alert in every seaport from Lemoyne to Maine. If we even made it to Dutch’s contact, any man willing to pirate paying criminals would also be willing to hand them over to paying law.” Arthur made a thoughtful expression as John and Abigail shared a fearful look. 

Hosea moved his hand to hover over the western half of the United States. “Dutch and I were right to give up on the West. The government is aggressively establishing a presence in every square mile of land. There’s no place to hide here anymore. I don’t even know how long this place will be safe.” He shook his head. “Wherever we’re going, there’s no way it can be in the United States.”

John scratched at his stubble. “Well, where the hell do we go, then?”

Hosea gestured his hand downward to Mexico. “In Mexico, it’ll be more of our same problems only under different names, and besides, we need to quit the outlaw business and we need to quit it yesterday.” He looked up and met each of their gazes. “The only way we’re gonna make it is if we go beyond lying low. We need to go straight. Dead silence for the rest of our days - not a _peep_ of trouble - if we want to escape this. _One_ slip, and I mean it, and they’ll kill us all.”

Arthur coughed into his elbow a couple times before clearing his throat and asking, “And how are we supposed to do that?”

Hosea tapped his finger hard down into the middle of Canada. “My plan is we need to make a run for Canada. Cross the border somewhere in rough territory, then make it into cattle country, in either Alberta or Saskatchewan. I’ll need to find some way to swap out all our American currency for Canadian currency, and then we’ll use the money to buy ourselves a ranch and some cattle, live like how we wanted our end goal to be before Blackwater.”

John shook his head. “I don’t like the currency issue. One, I don’t see how you can do that ‘straight,’ and two, what if you can’t? We’d be in a strange country with _nothing_.”

Hosea took a deep breath and looked at them all again. “We’d have our lives, which is something we _won’t_ have if we go anywhere else. I don’t care if we have to become hard laborers in the Yukon, if that’s what it takes to survive-”

A fire lit in Abigail’s eyes and she slammed her hands down on the table, making Arthur jump. “I won’t have Jack become no miner!”

Hosea’s hands twitched and clenched, biting his lip to try and tempt out the words he needed to say. He looked at John and Abigail, expression pained yet soft. “I’ve been trying to tell y’all to leave us for a while now.” John looked away, ashamed, as Abigail looked down with tears in her eyes. “That offer still stands, though I fear now that you two’s chance of making it alone out there is slim to none. If you honestly feel like you can figure out something better, and want to make a go of it with just yourselves, you just let me know. I’ll make sure you get a decent chunk of money and supplies.”

Arthur squirmed in his seat. “I kinda like this Canada idea,” he said quietly.

Abigail licked her lips and looked back at Hosea, John too lost in his thoughts. “Why don’t we go now?” She tensed. “Just… run?”

Hosea fixed her with a Look. “For one, Bill ain’t back yet.” Arthur affirmed it with a small nod, making Abigail wilt with guilt. “And two, there’s unfinished business to attend to. We have two-thirds of the money we stole from the bank, ‘cause Bill has the last third, and I want to go back for our savings near Shady Belle so we have as much money as possible, especially ‘cause a significant chunk of that is gold and jewels. And lastly…” his voice grew quiet and broke, a tremble shaking through his frame “I wanna bury Dutch.”

John looked up finally, eyes wet, and put his hand on Hosea’s back while Arthur reached out and put his hand over Hosea’s. Abigail looked like she wanted to sink into the floor.

“I don’t wanna leave you, Hosea,” she said quietly. “Jack loves you. ... _I_ love you.”

Hosea leaned down until she met his eyes. “If leaving me is what it takes for him and you to live, if ever a moment like that arrives, then you _better_ leave.” He turned to Arthur and John as well. “That goes for all of you.”

John blanched but nodded while Arthur slowly shook his head, fixing Hosea with the same stare he gave him last night. Hosea swallowed and ran his hand through John’s hair and rested a hand on Abigail’s back. “But in the meantime… I’m doing everything I can to give all of us our best shot at getting out of this life, together. And I don’t intend on giving up on any of you or on myself. Not as I breathe.” John and Abigail smiled softly while Arthur visibly relaxed, coughing into his elbow again.

Hosea finally leaned back from the table and started rolling up his maps. “You lot have any questions or think of anything that can help, please come to me. I’ll keep working out the specifics. In the meantime, you can get back to work around camp.” When the three of them nodded and stood to leave, Hosea pointed accusingly at Arthur, throwing him a worried glance. “Except for you, Arthur, you rest today. I don’t like that cough.”

“I’m fine,” Arthur muttered, waving him off.

Hosea stood up straight and snapped his shoulders back, grinding out, “ _Boy_.”

Arthur threw up his hands and slinked out the door, going “Okay, fine, Christ-” as John laughed at him.

“Abigail,” Hosea called before the woman could make it out the door, “could you stay a moment?”

Abigail looked at him in surprise but nodded, closing the door and turning around. Hosea walked up to her and took her hands in his, giving them a gentle squeeze before saying, “You have turned into a beautiful, capable, and intelligent young woman and mother. Jack is one of the luckiest boys on Earth that he has you looking out for him. Every day, I’m so proud of your strength.” Abigail smiled bashfully and ducked her head, but Hosea coaxed her chin back up with a finger. “I’m also proud to think of you as a daughter.”

Tears pricked Abigail’s eyes. “Oh, Hosea…”

“Remember what I said,” Hosea said quietly, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. “If ever a moment arrives…”

Abigail leaned forward and hugged him. Hosea sighed into her hair and hugged her back.

\--

It was several hours later before Hosea ventured out of the house again, poring over maps and scribbling down notes, counting out the money that Charles and John brought back and stowing it away in a lockbox under his bedroom’s floorboards. When he finally exited, the camp wasn’t all that different - mostly folk were shuffled into different positions. There was so much to do and so many things to assign everyone, but seeing everyone’s downcast faces splintered the shards of Hosea’s heart. He nodded to himself, deciding to let them have this last day of rest.

Pearson called everyone over to eat his stew and Hosea joined the line to grab a bowl, enjoying the gentle ribs that the others would occasionally send Pearson’s way, everyone’s nerves too raw to put any real bite into it. A large gathering of folk had circled around the main campfire, and he wasn’t surprised that most of the others were waving him over to sit at it. He carefully stepped his way over to sit in a folding chair and eat his stew, eyeing the way the sky had paled and the clouds had darkened considerably more since the last time he put eyes on it. 

A sprinkle hit his nose and he frowned, knowing how powerful the storms got up in this country. He turned to eye the barn, figuring up how he could move everyone in there, when his eyes caught on the sight of Susan and Tilly off to the side of camp, Arthur making a beeline for them as he always seemed to when he spied anyone looking remotely upset. He tried to listen in, but the wind carried off most of their words, so he only caught the words ‘scared’ and ‘proud’ from Tilly and Susan, respectively, smiling as Susan rubbed Tilly’s shoulder and squeezed her hands before quickly walking off and holding back tears. Tilly and Arthur turned to each other and started talking, and Hosea made a mental note to check up on them.

“Hey Hosea,” Uncle mused from across the fire, “I suppose you’re the… leader? Now?”

Hosea snorted and ate another spoonful of stew. “You sound surprised, Uncle.”

Uncle chuckled and held up his hands as the others struggled to figure out if they felt amusement or grief. “Hey now, I’m just saying, you and Dutch-”

“Started this gang,” Hosea interrupted. “Together. Before we had anyone, we had each other.” 

“Well, I knows,” Uncle gestured, slurping more stew and spilling broth in his beard. “It’s just… weird, wasn’t it? Why wasn’t we the Van der Linde/Matthews gang?”

Hosea’s heart simultaneously wrenched with grief and shuddered with amusement. “There’s a, uh… actually a funny story behind that.”

Javier roused himself from staring morosely at his shoes to prompt “Oh?” with a note of hope in his voice. Hosea also saw Trelawny, Strauss, Mary-Beth, Karen, Swanson, and Pearson perk up slightly.

Hosea rubbed at his nose. “Well, when Dutch and I first started out, we didn’t really have a name for ourselves. The law just called us ‘Dutch van der Linde and Hosea Matthews.’ That changed once we took in Arthur and got him to a point we felt good taking him with us on jobs, and once there were three of us the law kind of reeled for a bit. They put up three separate wanted posters for a while, but then one day we came across a poster showing the three of us and calling us ‘The Matthews Gang,' I guess ‘cause they found out I was the oldest, and-” a chuckle bubbled up out of Hosea’s chest at the memory of Dutch’s bulging eyes and flared nostrils “-Dutch raised the _biggest stink_ over it, he raged for three days straight.” He cleared his throat and summoned his best impression of his best friend’s warbly baritone and voice cracks as grins began appearing on Trelawny’s and Mary-Beth’s faces. “‘MAtthews? The mATthews gang?! I am nOT some yoUng wAIF lApping at your HEels! WE are twO HALVES of a wHOLE!’ And I said, ‘Well what does that make Arthur? Chopped liver?’”

Mary-Beth, Trelawny, Javier, and Swanson were giggling now, and grins were overtaking Pearson’s, Strauss’s, Karen’s, and Uncles’s faces. Hosea ate it up. “We went round and around each other for days arguing if we’d be ‘The Van der Linde/Matthews’ gang or the ‘Matthews/Van der Linde’ gang or the ‘Van der Linde/Matthews/Morgan’ gang, but that one was both a mouthful and didn’t quite feel right when we were both nagging at Arthur to eat his vegetables and he kept jumping into our tent during storms-”

The giggling escalated into laughter, which grew louder when Arthur accusingly poked his head out from around the corner of a wagon and demanded, “You telling childhood stories ‘bout me, old man?!”

Hosea grinned at him and patted the ground beside him. “I was just telling them about how Dutch and I negotiated name custody!”

“Lord,” Arthur muttered, making his way over to sit next to Hosea as the rest of the gang began to drift towards them from the sidelines. 

“Anyway,” Hosea continued, “I finally told Dutch I didn’t rightly care about what name we were called, and he went ‘WEll ~I~ dO!’” Hosea stood up then and set his empty stew bowl down so that he could parade around the fire, puffing his chest out and flexing his biceps as he made grand hand gestures. “‘A nAme is the very SOUL of what it embOdies! If WE are to be resPECTed, if the lAW and the tYrants who are running this greAt country into the grOUnd is to fEAR US, we need to have nO crises of idEntity, but be UnITEd in oNE CAUSe, one trUTH, and One nAmE!’ And I yelled at him ‘If you’ve got such strong feelings about it Dutch, why don’t we just go by your name?’ And so he- so he-” Hosea doubled over laughing, feeling everyone except John, Susan, and Arthur lean forward in excited anticipation for what he was going to say next “-he wrote out and sent-” he cackled “ _-letters_ to all the sheriffs in the area _demanding_ that they call us the Van der Linde gang and reprint all the posters!”

Hosea was laughing so hard he was in tears now, and most of the gang was in the same boat, all gathered around the fire and shrieking out giggles and cackles and slapping each other on the back or falling off of their chairs. Hosea wandered back to his own chair and sat down heavily in it, shaking with the great bursts of laughter that were coming out of his chest, until they rapidly warped into silent wheezing, and then gasping sobs. Arthur noticed first, because of course he did, his laughter curtly extinguished as he sat up onto his knees to put a hand on Hosea’s back and grasp his forearm. Slowly, one by one, the gang got keyed into what was happening, and the laughter died down more and more into silence until the only sound was Hosea’s broken sobs.

Molly quickly came over to Hosea’s other side and held him. John, Abigail, Charles, Lenny, Sadie, Susan, and Tilly swiftly came over to sit around the others, the entire gang forming a tight, compact circle. Several people took Hosea’s breakdown as permission to break down themselves, crumbling and weeping. Jack toddled over and crawled into Hosea’s lap, burrowing into his chest. Hosea clung to him and undid Dutch’s handkerchief to cover his face. 

Whatever hopeful or joyful mood the camp had tentatively managed to scrounge up that day was cast down into ash. The yawning chasm that Dutch van der Linde used to fill for them all rang hollow, and thunder rumbled in the distance.

Pearson removed his hat and held it between his knees. After a long, quiet moment, he started to sing, “ _Come all of you, my brother scouts, and join me in my song. Come, let us sing together; Though the shadows fall so long_.”

Arthur lifted his head and joined in, “ _Of all the old frontiersmen; that used to scour the plain. There are but very few of them; That with us still remain._ ”

Tentatively, in small clusters, the entire gang began joining in, either by singing the words or humming along, until everyone but Hosea and Jack were contributing to the chorus.

_Day after day, they’re dropping off;  
They are going, one by one.  
Our clan is fast decreasing;  
Our race is almost run. _

_There are many of our numbers;  
They never wore the blue;  
But, faithfully, they did their part.  
As Brave men, tried and true. _

_They never joined the army;  
But had other work to do.  
In piloting the coming folks;   
To help them safely through. _

_But brothers, we are failing;  
Our race is almost run.  
The days of the elk and buffalo;  
And beaver traps, are done. _

_Oh! The days of the elk and buffalo;  
It fills my heart with pain.  
To know those days are passed and gone;  
To never come again. _

Hosea finally stopped crying enough to clear his throat repeatedly, wiping away his tears, and joined in himself:

_But those fighting days are over;  
The Indian yell resounds;  
No more along the border;  
Peace sends far sweeter sounds.  
_

_But we found great joy, our comrades;  
To hear and make it die.  
We won bright homes for gentle ones;  
And now, our West, goodbye.  
_

Swanson stood up and raised his fist. “To Dutch!”

The entire gang raised their fists as one. “ _To Dutch!_ ”

Lightning flashed and thunder shook the ground, the sprinkling of water growing into a rapidly increasing downpour. Hosea shrugged out of everyone’s grasp and set Jack down on the ground to yell, “Everyone, I want you all in the barn! It’s got a lightning rod! This storm may last all night!”

Everyone nodded quickly and started running around, grabbing their bed rolls and the things most precious to them they didn’t want getting waterlogged. Hosea ushered Jack to Abigail and then ran to the house along with John to frantically grab handfuls of things and hurry out again; John held the door for him on the way out since Hosea was juggling his bedroll and Dutch’s phonograph, and made sure to shut it behind them before they both hurried to the open barn door where Arthur was ushering everyone inside. 

Once everyone was inside, Arthur slipped in and slid the door shut behind him. Hosea set his and Dutch’s things down on the dirt floor and stood before everyone in front of the doors, but before he could say anything, Charles hurried forward and asked, “Hosea, should we have someone on watch? I’m happy to volunteer-”

Hosea planted a hand on his shoulder and smiled sadly. “Settle down, son.” He raised his other arm to gather everyone’s attention, and once everyone was quiet and had their eyes on him, he patted Charles on the back and began, “Now I don’t want anyone to worry about guard duty tonight. This storm’s gonna be a hell-raiser-” a wall of wind slammed into the barn, whistling through the wood and the rafters as if to prove his point as they all listened to the rain roar against the roof, making Cain whine from his spot under Abigail’s skirt “-and even the law will want to stay in amongst friends tonight. I…” He took a deep breath to collect himself. “I know that everyone feels rather lost right now. We never, ever thought that we’d be in this position. In a place without Dutch.”

Everyone either cast their eyes downwards or sadly nodded. Hosea swallowed and continued, “I’m working out what we’re doing, and I’ve got it semi-solid at this point. I’ll spare you all the details tonight, because I want us all to just have a night together and focus on each other. We’ll have a meeting first thing tomorrow morning and I’ll kick us all forward again, but I want to tell you all now it won’t be as the Van der Linde gang. Those days are done.” Several mortified expressions snapped up to him and some folks started crying. “Instead, we’re moving forward as a _family_ now. At least, anyone who wishes to stay. But- more on that in the morning.” 

He paused for a long moment, knowing that they needed to hear more. He yearned for Dutch to take over and wax poetic at them, but he knew the man would be just as lost if not moreso than he was, fraying his nerves into thin threads by writing and scrapping seventeen different speech scripts. Instead, he took his hat off and worked at it in his hands, taking another deep breath and letting words spill out as they may. “You know, I… built this barn myself, with the help of Bessie and a friend of mine. It was to hold our livestock. Just a small number, enough to live off the land. We had a… a dairy cow, and a shire. Silver Dollar, of course, and Lady.” He felt himself slip out of his body. “Bessie and I, we… we’d sit in this barn and work and talk for hours. Thinking about how our children would play in here. Talking about how we’d teach them how to milk a cow and tend a garden and ride a horse, or how cozy the hay loft would be to teach ‘em how to read.”

His eyes wandered over to Arthur, then to John, then to Tilly, who was looking at him with such open empathetic grief that Hosea was grounded back into the sharp pain of the present, his heart wringing itself in shame of how he treated the girl, treated all of them.

“I wanted so much to start my own family with Bessie. We wanted so desperately to get out of that life... and for a time, we did. And we were happy. But _God_ , this life brought _us_ all together, didn't it?” His voice broke and he hung his head. “I didn’t treat any of you right,” he said, gesturing to everyone from Arthur to Swanson, “when Dutch first brought you in. In fact, I’m pretty sure I was against each and every single one of you joining the gang, kicking up some fuss or other.” Some of them tried to wave him off but he curtly shook his head. “No. It wasn’t right. And if I could go back and beat the son of a bitch I was I would. You’re not _liabilities-_ ” he spat the word like it was sour “-you’re _people_. Good people. People I think of as my children-” he looked at the young ones “-my siblings-” he looked at the older lot “-my friends,” he finished, looking at them all.

“I know I’m not Dutch,” he said quietly. “I know I’m going to be asking a lot from you all in the coming days. I know I’m just an old, heartbroken man. But I love you all. I’m damn glad that I can shelter you all in a place that I built, that it can do its purpose, that this place of loss and grief where I lost one family can keep my other family safe.” He slowly put his hat back on his head. “We’re getting out of this life. We’re gonna make it. If it takes everything I have… _You all_ are going to make it. I promise you that.” He cast his gaze down and moved off to the side of the barn, where he leaned against the wall and curled into his coat.

A part of him eased a little when he saw that the others had relaxed. The air of sadness over them all was so thick that one could cut it with a knife, but the others were moving around and talking quietly amongst each other, a tiny shared firefly of hope blinking between them. Karen was tickling Jack on her lap while Abigail and Charles dug out fire pits in the dirt, reassured by the damp wood and wooden vents up in the loft, as well as Hosea’s small nods of consent every time they glanced up at him. Javier had settled his guitar in his lap and Uncle had done the same with his banjo, and the two were strumming back and forth, having a soft conversation between their instruments. The others were unpacking their things and organizing cans and cartons of food or lighting lanterns, bathing the barn in warm yellow light. Hosea heard footsteps walk up beside him and he sighed, “Arthur.”

“I ain’t Arthur.”

Hosea straightened up and pushed off the wall, looking to his side to see Tilly standing there, looking at him with a gaze far too tired for her young face. Then again, the same was true of when she was thirteen, wall-eyed and covered in scars and shivering away from any man’s touch but Dutch’s. The memory of Hosea screaming at Dutch to leave her in an orphanage, that the gang was no place for her, passed over him and left bile on the back of his tongue. This amazing girl had already gone through far too much before she even reached puberty. 

“Hey sweetpea,” Hosea said softly, offering her a genuine smile. She smiled back, eyes twinkling at the childhood nickname. “How are you holding up?”

“I was about to ask you that,” she retorted with a wry grin. 

Hosea shook his head and rubbed his eyes. “I… about how you’d expect.” He looked up at the window of the barn loft, out to the pouring rain and hints of hail that drummed on the roof, lightning arcing across the sky. “I miss-” his voice died out at the sheer weight of it all. The sheer weight of that man. The smell of cigar smoke and sweat and pomade, a deep warbly voice and dark brown eyes. “Him…”

Tilly crashed into his front and cinched his middle in a hug, hands worming into his coat to clutch at his back as she tucked her face against his chest. “Me too,” she whispered, before she quietly broke apart and wept.

Hosea’s heart wrenched again as he lifted his arms to hold and squeeze Tilly, tucking his head over hers and absorbing her into his coat. He’d first found out about how soothing pressure helped Arthur mostly by accident, but even in children - hell, adults - who didn’t have Arthur’s particular brand of peculiarities, he found it worked wonders. It soothed John and Tilly too when they’d have fits or got scared - it even helped Dutch right up until the end, the weight of Hosea settling over and around him and cutting off his senses, helping to slow down his hyperventilation enough to where he could breathe and unkink his muscles enough to shake out whatever overcame him.

They stayed like that for a long while, even after Tilly stopped crying, focusing on the other’s heartbeat. Finally, Tilly sniffed and said, “I’m real scared.”

Hosea kissed the top of her head. “We’re all scared. Have been for a long time now. It’s what we _do_ with that fear that counts.” Slowly, he leaned back just enough so that she could look up at him. “I’m using mine to work hard and remember the important things, not letting it control me. We give in to that fear, they’ve already won. But having it isn’t a bad thing. It’s necessary to be brave.”

Tilly looked downwards. “I… I don’t think I understand.”

Hosea smoothed a hand over her beautiful kinky locks and reminisced about how Annabelle and he rode out for three days to a black shanty town and paid three black aunties copious amounts of money to give them a wide-toothed comb, teach them how black hair works, and teach them how to make homemade conditioner. He never did ever get to do Tilly’s hair - Annabelle and Susan were hyper-territorial over her hair - and then Tilly was old enough to care for it on her own. John’s hair was remarkably silky when Hosea managed to ambush him, however.

Shaking himself out of the memories, he took her hands in his and clarified, “Fear isn’t something to be afraid of, Tilly Jackson. It means you don’t want to lose something you love. Focus on that love instead, and what actions you’re capable of doing to keep what you love safe.” He raised a prompting eyebrow. “Now, what things can you do to help?”

Tilly’s eyes brightened. “I can keep the camp workin’ and keep folks clothed and warm and fed, and the horses clean and fit and the tack in good condition. And I’m good at talkin’ to the boys when they need their heads reset.”

Hosea chuckled at that. “All extremely important tasks, especially that last one. And tomorrow? I’m gonna make sure you learn even more things that you can do to protect the others and yourself.”

Tilly smiled at that, dimples forming in her cheeks, the tension in her body draining away, and she wiped away her tear-stains before taking Hosea’s arm in hers and forcibly leading him towards one of the two fires that Abigail and Charles built and encircled with wet stones. “I look forward to that. Now you come on now and stop moping in the dark, we saved a spot for you!”

Lenny’s face lit up when he saw them approach and he eagerly patted the ground beside him, where Tilly forcibly placed Hosea down with a cast-iron grip on the nape of his neck, something she must have learned from Susan. Hosea laughed despite himself as Tilly plopped down on his other side, and instead he gently hit the two kids’ shoulders and nagged, “Have you two eaten yet?”

The others around them smiled when Hosea sat down beside the fire, and their smiles grew even wider when he reached out and grabbed a can of corned beef, tossed it up in the air, and impaled it on his knife before handing it to Lenny to open the rest of the way. Javier’s somber guitar tune picked up its melody into something a bit more upbeat, the man himself trying to hide his grin from watching Hosea nearly snap Uncle’s wrist to snatch the last biscuit and hand it to Tilly.

About fifteen minutes later, the barn door was ripped open and in half a second everyone had their guns drawn with the hammers cocked and their fingers on the triggers, aimed at the center of the shadowy figure’s chest. It stepped closer into the fire and lantern light, and a drenched and lightly bruised Bill Williamson walked in, breathing heavily, eyes livid. “Well _here you is!_ ”

Everyone’s guns immediately lowered as a mass jubilant holler of “ _Bill!_ ” resounded through the group. Everyone sprang up onto their feet and rushed to grab him and pull him up near the fires, closing the barn door behind him and laughing at his spooked and slack-jawed expression.

Lenny guffawed and gave Bill hard pats on the back. “We were scared you were dead, man!”

Strauss poked his head out of the crowd and yelled, “Does this mean everyone _actually_ made it?!”

Bill blinked rapidly as Karen shoved a package of crackers and salted meat into his hands and gently punched him in the shoulder, looking around at everyone as if wondering whether or not he walked into the wrong barn.

Trelawny found a crate and hopped up upon it, tapping his tin mug with a metal spoon to quiet everyone’s excited cheers and disbelief. “Attention everyone,” Trelawny called out, waiting until all eyes were on him before continuing, arms splayed out, “I would like to point out something remarkable. Because of _Dutch’s sacrifice_ , we all - _all!_ \- made it out of Lemoyne _alive!_ We are all here and reunited, safe and sound and whole, protected by that man _even beyond death!_ ” Several in the crowd howled and Trelawny raised his mug. “Let us have three cheers for Dutch van der Linde, the greatest man who ever lived! Hip hip!”

“ _Hooray!_ ” “Hip hip!” “ _Hooray!_ ” “Hip hip!” “ _Hooray!_ ”

Trelawny then extended his arm and pointed at Hosea where he was nestled in the middle of the crowd. “And let us celebrate also, the man who _physically_ saved us from the clutches of the demons who took Dutch from us, who fought through and stared down rabid human mongrels single-handedly to guide us safely here, who opened the most intimate place of his life to us so he may cover us with his protective wings, our new wise and capable leader - and new patriarch of our little family - _Hosea Matthews!_ ” Trelawny took off his hat and bowed with a flourish, and Hosea had hardly any time to react before Javier, Lenny, Sadie, and Arthur had picked him up off the ground. “Hip hip!”

Hosea was hurled up into the air with everyone’s “ _Hooray!_ ”, and the panic on his face made giggles reverberate through the crowd. After two more _Hoorays_ , he was caught by the fools for the last time and set down, where he bristled at the number it did on his back and tried to smile as everyone screamed and cheered his name.

Reverend Swanson hopped up onto the crate next to Trelawny, making it wobble ominously, and bellowed “ _Oh, we’d be all right, if the wind was in our sails!_ ”

Pearson’s face beamed like the sun as he screamed “ _We’d be all right, if the wind was in our sails!_ ” at the top of his lungs. 

Everyone except for Hosea and Bill quickly joined in, singing or bellowing and chaotically harmonizing:

_We’d be all right if the wind was in our sails!  
And we’ll all hang on behind! _

_And we'll ro-o-oll the old chariot along!~_

Bill quickly found Hosea, beef and cracker bits still in his beard, and pulled him off to the side in relative privacy as everyone happily sang.

“Hosea,” Bill pleaded quietly, glancing around skittishly as the others drowned out the thunder, “please don’t kick me out of the gang.”

Hosea blinked and furrowed his brow. “Is there a reason I should?” he asked coldly.

Bill rapidly shook his head, but then he froze and quivered for a moment before hanging his head and crying. “I just… I know I ain’t worth much. I was lost out there some odd six hours trying to figure out your rock puzzle and I ended up just wandering in the woods and getting lost until I saw this barn with the lights on, and… and-” he cried harder “-and Dutch is dead and I know you ain’t got no stake in me ‘cause-”

Hosea ducked his head down to meet the man’s eyes. “Why are you acting like a fool, Bill?”

Bill shook his head and blubbered. “But ya _don’t!_ I ain’t the best shooter or hunter or sweet-talker and I get nerves sometimes holdin’ up people and you think I’m stupid and I- and you were disappointed in me for hitting Micah-” he suddenly choked himself off and looked frantically around the barn as if the man in question would choose that moment to seek retaliation.

Hosea squeezed his forearm to bring his gaze back. “Bill, I cut Micah loose shortly after we split up because he’s a bigoted and reckless bastard. He has no place in this family, but you do.”

Bill worked his mouth for a long moment, processing his surprise before managing, “But I ain’t worth nothin’ to you!”

“You keep saying you’re not good at anything, but you’re good at caring,” Hosea countered. “You’ve shown Dutch and the others unwavering love this entire time, and sure, you’ve run your mouth about things you shouldn’t have, you’ve got an anger streak a mile wide and you try and act like a bigot, but when other people pull you aside and explain why you’re being a bastard you actually change your behavior. Your worth ain’t in how book-smart you are or how capable you are of violence, Bill, it’s in how you care about folk and are willing to change. And you never lose your temper with Jack or the animals, and I see that it’s through active effort. In fact, I think you have it in you to make a good father one of these days.”

Bill blanched and darted his eyes around, ducking his head. “I, uh… think havin’ children ain’t really possible for folk like me.”

Hosea shrugged. “Why not? You get you a good husband-”

A look of pure and unadulterated terror blazed through Bill’s face as he bodily picked up Hosea and carried him away a few meters further from the others, setting him down and flinching back when Hosea punched a finger into the center of his chest and snapped “ _You touch me like that again boy and you won’t have hands._ ”

Bill heaved, rapidly oscillating between rage and fear as he looked at Hosea. “S-Sorry, b-b-but how d’you know ab-b-bout all that?”

Hosea sighed and let his anger go with it. “It wasn’t hard to figure out. Speaking from one to another.” Bill went pale and his eyes grew wide as saucers, making Hosea chuckle. “I genuinely did love Bessie, but I’ve laid with as many men as I did women back in my day. And did you honestly think folk didn’t see Dutch and I’s relationship as even a little bit queer, two men raising children together?”

A thousand emotions zipped across Bill’s face like words in an open book. “I… I never thought I’d… meet...” He blinked and looked at Hosea, expression soft and open. “And I can… I can stay?”

Hosea held up a warning finger. “If you stop giving Lenny, Tilly, Javier, and especially Charles _shit_ , if you stop _touching folk_ inappropriately, if you stay away from the drink, and you respect us when we tell you no for _anything_... You will always be welcome as one of my own, Bill.” He narrowed his eyes. “If not, I’ll toss you out into whatever hole Micah’s crawling around in.”

Hosea was barely able to finish that last sentence before Bill had crashed into him in a hug, squeezing him so tight that Hosea’s boots lifted off the ground slightly.

“ _Oh thank you Hosea_ I can’t believe you believe in me and that yer acceptin’ I promise I won’t never let you down and I’ll do whatever you say you won’t catch me _never_ doubtin’ you you’re the best man second only to Dutch and I love you like I love him you’re like the Daddy I never had-”

Hosea looked frantically over Bill’s shoulder and caught Arthur’s eye, gesturing his head for rescue.

“Okay, big man,” Arthur laughed, coming over and swatting at Bill until he put Hosea down, “come on and join the party.” He took Bill by the shoulders and steered him around, shoving him towards the others around the fires. Arthur glanced back at Hosea with a grin, who flamboyantly shrugged, and Arthur laughed again. “I’ll make sure I keep an eye on him.”

“Thank you, my boy,” Hosea smiled, and as soon as Arthur turned around his expression fell, pinched with exhaustion.

Over by the others, while everyone was still recovering from Roll the Old Chariot, Uncle sat down with his banjo and called out, “Hey, here’s an old favorite for this family reunion! _When I was just a lad you know, I met a gal in old Bourdeoux, She had blonde hair and blue eyes too-_ ”

_She let me ride on the ring-dang-do!_

Hosea slinked away from the crowd and lights and commotion, all the noise and movement making him feel like fingernails were scratching up the length of his spine and making his hair stand on end. He wanted the others to be able to have their fun, to smile and laugh and desperately cling to these things that gave them happiness and hope and made them feel safe, but it was too much too soon for him. And this particular song raised a memory far too sharp and painful for him to deal with. 

He grabbed his bedroll and snuck off to the hayloft ladder, where he slowly climbed it - cringing against his screaming joints the whole time - until he finally made it up into the loft, where he carefully pushed himself back up onto his feet and laid his bedroll out in a corner. He wincingly collapsed onto it and pressed his back against the wall, then hugged his knees to his chest and let his head loll backwards, his lungs whistling. He closed his eyes and tried to blot out the noise of the storm and the voices of the others. Tried to pretend he didn’t feel the touch of a phantom hand over his, or hear Dutch’s voice, full of soft and tender reverence, tell him _‘We did it,’_ because the truth was cruel and unfair and full of brutality.

Tears were slipping down his cheeks when he heard boots climbing their way up the ladder, and he was two seconds away from throwing his hat at and biting the head off of whoever was pursuing him for more _goddamn talking_ when he quickly bit it back, seeing Sadie Adler’s face come up over the ladder, looking as tired as he felt.

“Hey,” she said softly, clambering up and onto the loft. She refused to look at him. “We don’t gotta talk. I just… After Jakey… I didn’t want to be alone, so…”

Hosea nodded slightly, and Sadie must have caught it, because she slowly came over and sat down next to him on the bedroll. And that was it. No more words, no more movement. Just Sadie, staring silently out the far window of the barn, expression perfectly neutral, being a warm and firm and real weight and presence against his side. 

Hosea had no words or energy left in him to express his gratitude. Eventually, the voices of everyone quieted down into a soft murmur, and the grainy sound of Dutch’s phonograph began crooning its way up into the loft. Hosea undid his ascot and covered his face with it, inhaling the scent of Dutch, letting it absorb his tears and any sounds he made for a long while. After about nine songs played on the phonograph, he resituated himself until he was laying down facing the wall, the handkerchief clutched in his hand and pressed against his chest.

Sadie continued to sit there and guard over him as he fell into a numb and dreamless sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Said meme was from the late and great Larry Wayne Pettus Sr, whose quote I always look up on Youtube whenever I need a funny joke to make me laugh real quick, which you can find [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uGgI6qsg_kc).
> 
>  **1\. Dutch van der Linde's Last Stand**  
>  **2\. Escape from Saint Denis**  
>  **3\. Escape from Lemoyne**  
>  **4\. The Letter**  
>  **5\. Reunions**  
>  6\. Unfinished Business


	6. Unfinished Business

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warning** for attempted **non-consensual kissing, implied sexual assault/rape threats, harm to animal(s), referenced lynching,** graphic descriptions of **human body decomposition** , discussions of **past physical abuse** , and in-depth graphic discussions of **emotional/psychological abuse.**
> 
> I'd written an entire Dutch meta here but I accidentally backed out of the editor and lost the whole damn chapter and almost cried from frustration so I'll just add it into the end notes later. Just know that this chapter goes straight for Dutch's jugular, and also carries a lesson my therapist taught me.
> 
> Songs featured in this chapter:  
> 1\. [Jesse James](http://www.contemplator.com/america/jessej.html)

When Hosea drifted into consciousness, curled in on himself in the chill morning air after the storm, he wished he could slip back into oblivion and never wake up. His body felt like it had been run over by a train and like all his limbs weighed several tons. 

He heard the sound of deep breathing behind him that he doubted could come from Sadie, and that was enough to cause him to stir and roll over to see who was sleeping at his side. Hosea’s chest felt a little less heavy when he saw that it was Arthur there, sleeping on his own bedroll, strategically positioned between Hosea and the ladder as a ward against anyone coming up to bother him.

Slowly, Hosea sat up with a long chain of winces and grunts, before finally situating himself upright so that he could look at the boy’s face. It was drawn in tight as he slept, a severe frown tugging his lips down, his jaw clenched. Hosea’s hand quickly found its way to his forehead, soothing its fingers through Arthur’s hair, making the muscles in his face unwind.

Hosea had been so caught up in his own grief that he hardly spared the energy to consider what losing Dutch had meant to Arthur. Just like always, the boy had slipped under Hosea’s radar, always checking up on him and everyone else to try and see what they needed, how he could help. Never how _they_ could help _him_. Hosea had been so grateful that Arthur was acting like such a pillar of strength for him, but that wasn’t right. Hosea was the elder. The guardian. Arthur wasn’t a child, but he used to be - a small boy who always looked up to Dutch with big doe-eyes and followed him around like a puppy, craving and hanging off of every scrap of praise he could earn from the man. 

Dutch had taught him how to shoot, how to read, how to interact with and ride horses - had slept with him for weeks when the boy was having nightmares in the early days while Hosea was still being a waspish ass about the boy. Had killed Colm’s brother over Arthur. He was never particularly skilled at _talking_ with him or soothing him or nurturing him - Hosea had to take up that role - but Dutch had raised that boy right alongside him, had crafted his mind and shaped his morals. Had never abandoned him.

Not like Hosea had done.

Hosea’s hand grew even gentler as it worked its way through his hair. He would never fail this boy again.

“Arthur,” he said gently. “Arthur, wake up.” Arthur groaned a complaint and shoved his face further into his bedroll, making Hosea smile. He hadn’t woken Arthur like this since he was seventeen. Slowly, he took a strand of the man’s long hair and shoved it up his nostril, making Arthur snurfle and twitch awake. “Morning, sleepyhead.”

Arthur wiped at his nose and gave Hosea a stink-eye over his shoulder, making Hosea’s smile grow even wider. With a yawn, Arthur slowly sat up and wetly coughed into his coat-sleeve, effectively wiping the smile off of Hosea’s face.

“I was hoping that cough would’ve gone by now,” Hosea said quietly. “Maybe you shouldn’t go out with us today.”

Arthur cleared his throat and shook his head, immediately grumbling, “M’fine.” He blinked, then, and looked at Hosea with a raised eyebrow. “Go out? For what?”

Hosea sat up straighter. “I wanted to take you, John, and Susan out to retrieve the money, and…” his eyes fell, voice growing softer "...bury Dutch.”

Arthur suddenly grabbed Hosea’s wrist, gentle but firm, making Hosea look up to see the pleading look on his face. “Hosea, I’m not missing that.”

Hosea frowned, but knew he couldn’t take this from the boy. Reluctantly, he nodded, and Arthur relaxed. With a sigh, Hosea pushed up onto his knees and started rolling up his bedroll, pausing to cough dryly into his own sleeve.

“Cold wet air ain’t good for the lungs,” Arthur murmured, rolling up his own bedroll.

“Neither is being a hypocrite,” Hosea sighed, gesturing at himself. Arthur gently clapped him on the back. “Now come on, we’ve got a long day ahead of us.”

They made their way down the hayloft ladder to find most of the gang still asleep after their late night reveling, but the barn door was open and several muddy trails of footprints led outside. Already they could see Susan and Tilly fixing up what areas of camp were damaged by hail and wind, as well as Pearson taking inventory of their food stock. As Hosea led Arthur across the yard towards the house, they saw Charles standing guard at the path with a rifle. The man looked over his shoulder and spotted them; Arthur perked up and waved at him, and Charles gave a soft smile before waving back. Hosea’s mouth quirked upwards watching the two.

“I’ve fleshed out the plan for how we’re getting out of here a bit more since last we spoke about it,” Hosea told Arthur as they reached the front door. “Things are still pretty drippy out there, so I think I’ll host the meeting in the barn so that everyone can see where the hell we’re going on non-runny maps.”

“Sounds good.”

Hosea opened the front door and immediately toed off his boots and set them by the door. He huffed a laugh when Arthur looked confused. “Don’t track mud in my house, son.” Arthur quickly took off his boots as Hosea walked towards his bedroom and called over his shoulder, “And grab yourself something to eat!”

When Hosea returned with his armful of maps, Arthur was still standing in the middle of the living space unmoved, looking as out-of-place as if a deer had wandered in. Hosea quirked an eyebrow. “You can grab whatever you like.”

Arthur sucked in a cheek and shrugged. “I ain’t really hungry.”

Hosea blinked and set the maps down on the kitchen table. “You’re usually as ravenous as a bear after winter when you wake up in the morning. What’s wrong?”

“Nothin’s _wrong_ ,” Arthur said quickly, shifting his weight uneasily and avoiding Hosea’s eyes. “Just… been a hard few days, s’all.”

Hosea sighed and looked through the cabinets for something that was easy on the stomach. He found a box of saltine crackers and gently pressed them into Arthur’s hands. “Try and get those down, for me, please. You need your strength. Make sure you’re hydrated too.”

Arthur made a face at the crackers but opened them all the same. “You’re frettin’ a lot more than normal.”

Hosea gathered his maps back up into his arms and retorted “It’s been a hard few days” before shoving his feet back into his boots. “Let me fret.”

Arthur munched a cracker as he put his own boots back on. “You worry too much and you’ll make yourself sick. And why ain’t you eating?”

“Hey.” Hosea smacked Arthur gently in the chest with his papers. “I’m the fretter, you’re the frettee. Now the longer you don’t get those crackers and some water in ya, the more I’m gonna fret. You wanna send me to an early grave, boy?”

Arthur chuckled and followed Hosea out the door, shutting it behind them. “No, sir.” 

“Good.” Hosea gave an impish look over his shoulder. “Now give me a cracker.”

Arthur pressed a cracker into Hosea’s hand with another chuckle and Hosea grinned as he ate it.

Once they made it into the barn, Hosea hung up the maps on the walls - one of their region, one of the country, and one of North America - hammering their corners in with nails. The hammering roused the gang still sleeping, making them start crawling around with pained groans and bitter grumbles. Arthur leaned against a post and ate his crackers in amusement.

Once the hammering was done, Hosea grabbed an old rusty cowbell and Trelawny’s spoon from last night and began wailing on the thing, making everyone’s disgruntled noises grow three times louder as he made a lap between the barn and the main camp hollering “ _Meeting in the barn!_ Mandatory _meeting, let’s go, let’s go, let’s go!_ ”

In less than five minutes, everyone had gathered back into the barn, looking slightly disheveled but functional. Hosea waited until a few people got done yawning, then cleared his throat for their attention.

“Good morning,” he greeted briefly. “I hope you got some good rest last night, because starting right now, it’s time to get to _work_ , and work hard. We’re not going overseas anymore-” he ran his hand down the eastern seaboard “-putting us all on a boat leaves us too vulnerable. Instead, I think our best bet is to go north, into Canada.” He pointed it out on the map. “There’s good grazing land in Alberta. Between the money we got from that bank and our camp savings, we have about thirty-three thousand dollars. That can get us into the country, get us a ranch, some houses, some cattle, proper supplies… we can live comfortably. We can live _right_.” He turned and looked at their sea of faces, seeing an entire spectrum of expressions.

Hosea took a deep breath. “The only way any of us are gonna live is if we stop all this _killing_ . Saint Denis was a repeat of Blackwater only with a larger death toll. Thirty-seven? Try closer to _sixty_ .” Many people in the crowd paled, but Hosea’s resolve only steeled. “Add Valentine and Rhodes on top of that and we’ve got well over a hundred dead. The law wants a proportional response. They’ve been wanting a proportional response since Blackwater. You know how many of us there are? Eighteen. Nineteen if we’re counting Trelawny.” Trelawny tipped his hat. “Do the math. We’re wanted _nationally_ now, ever since we hit Leviticus Cornwall. That means we’ve got the law in every state, Pinkertons, every cut-throat bounty hunter, hell we’re gonna have _federal agents_ on our case now!” He saw more than a few terrified tears in the crowd and snapped “ _Good!_ You damn well should be scared! We’re not a quirky lot of merry men committing burglaries and giving to the poor anymore. _We’ve earned this.”_

His voice dropped low and cold when he asked, “Do you understand... that if you remain with me... there will be no more crime? Not even a picked pocket?” He waited until he saw a nod from each head before he took a deep breath, relaxed, and continued. 

“I know a guy in Minneapolis who can convert our currency to Canadian money. That’s too long and risky of a detour, so I’ll send-” he bit back the word _Arthur_ and reminded himself this was supposed to be about consent “-someone I trust there to be in and out while our wagon train will be making its way to Minnesota’s northern border.” He traced a line with his finger from their current location up through Minnesota and into Canada. “This is going to be a long trip. Non-stop, because we won’t have that luxury. Rough country, back roads, no town visits unless it’s an absolute emergency. I want us being completely self-sufficient the whole way.”

He looked back at the others and offered them a wry grin. “That’s why I want everyone who chooses to remain with me - and I mean _everyone_ \- to know how to treat and shoot a gun, ride a horse, hunt, skin a kill, cook, mend and wash their own clothes, set up a tent, build a fire, and know basic medical training for themselves. I want all of you able to survive on your own if we get separated, and have the skills and tools you need to find us again. Our rendezvous point if we get separated will be in Winnipeg.” He pointed it out on the map, half to show everyone, and half to hide his smirk at how over half of them looked near a full-blown panic at having to be self-sufficient.

Right on cue, Javier squawked, “We gotta learn _women’s work?!_ ”

Mary-Beth wrung her hands and asked, “We gotta learn how to _hunt?_ ”

Hosea put his hands on his hips. “All of you need to be able to sew a shirt and shoot a target from horseback in the next two weeks. Bessie and I shared the work of this place equally-” Sadie’s expression softened “-and both of us learned survival skills. If we could do it, so can you. I sure as hell ain’t teaching all you fools either, so learn from each other.”

He paused for a long moment. There were scouting parties to organize, but he needed to let them make their choices first.

Shoving his hands in his coat pockets, he looked at them all and quietly said, “I want to make clear that none of you are under _any_ obligation to me. If you stay, I want it to be your choice, because this plan is something _you want_ to do. If you want to leave for any reason, there will be no questions asked and no judgement. You come to me, I’ll make sure you have a good load of money, that you’re armed, and that you’re equipped well with supplies and food. We’ll get you a horse if you don’t have one. I’m proud of each and every single one of you, and I trust your judgement.” He let everything sink in for a moment, then asked, “You can come back up to me at any time later, but does anyone here want to go ahead and make their decision?”

Sadie ticked her head up. “I can’t leave until every O’Driscoll is dead. I ain’t coming.”

Arthur looked at her with a deep sadness chiseled into the lines of his face, and he shook his head slightly. Sadie frowned and knit her brow, but shook her head back, a silent plea and rejection.

Hosea nodded. “We’ll make sure you’re well taken care of. Is there anyone else?”

Bill crossed his arms and proudly jutted his chin up to declare, “Well I’m _stayin’!_ ”

Hosea looked to John and Abigail, who noticed his gaze. They looked at each other and had a short conversation with their eyes before they both nodded, John reeling her in to nuzzle against his chest. “We’re staying,” they said together.

“I’m sure as hell stayin,” Arthur gruffed, rolling his shoulder.

Susan scoffed and joined in. “Am I even a question?”

Javier held out his hands and said “How could I leave my _abuelito?_ ”, making Hosea fondly roll his eyes.

Tilly stood up tall and said, “I’m stayin’,” swiftly followed by Mary-Beth and Karen, and all three held hands.

“I want to stay,” Charles said softly, looking to Arthur. “You all are my family.”

“Same here,” Lenny declared, looking to Hosea.

Pearson let out a slow breath. “I love this country, but… _someone’s_ gotta feed you lot! I’m in!”

Strauss had been sweating profusely and shaking ever since Hosea’s ‘proportional response’ talk, and finally piped up to say, “This is all I know. I don’t know what I’d do on a ranch… maybe handle the finances?”

Swanson was also sweating profusely and shaking, but for different reasons, judging by how he had stayed close to Charles as alcohol was passed around last night and the fact that Hosea spotted him hurl his opioid stash out of the wagon and into the bog the night they fled Shady Belle. Swanson stood up as proudly as he could to look at Hosea. “I love you like a brother, Hosea. You’ve treated me kinder than I done ever deserved. I’d follow you into Hell.”

Uncle shrugged from where he was lounging on the floor. “Eh, I’ll stay.”

Trelawny and Molly shared a tense look with each other. Trelawny took off his hat as Molly slipped to the back of the crowd and hid behind Arthur. The man cleared his throat and said, “I… I have a family in Saint Denis. I don’t even know if they’re okay. I want to speak with them f-”

Hosea waved a gentle hand at him. “Take all the time you need, friend. Now, with that done, Charles, Javier, Karen? I’d like you to take today and tomorrow to ride up north into these mountains and look for any passes we could take the wagon train through. I don’t want us to have to go around.” When the three of them nodded, Hosea let out a heavy breath. “All right. Everyone, dismissed. Get to work!”

Everyone immediately hopped up and started moving. Hosea pulled Arthur aside and told him to go ready the horses, and with a nod Arthur trailed out behind the others, leaving only Hosea and Molly.

Hosea looked at the uncertain expression on the woman and her trembling frame before deciding to slide the barn door shut, sealing them into privacy and muffling the hustle and bustle of the outside world. He made sure to step away and to the side, leaving the path to the exit open before asking, “Did you want to talk, Molly?”

Molly worried the fabric of her shawl back and forth for a long while before finally speaking. “I dunno what to do,” she said quietly. “Everything I was… Everything I did… My entire existence… All of it hung on Dutch. When he rejected me, I’d try an’ go to the others, but they all either ignored me or made fun o’ me, like I wasn’t worth nothin’. An’ then he kicked me out of our room and I slept on that _dirty_ dining room floor in that _filthy_ house like a bleedin’ soiled dove, used and spent and cast away like a _cheap whore_ …” She bared her teeth and started sobbing.

Hosea let out a long sigh and cast his gaze down. “There was only ever one woman for Dutch, and that was Annabelle. I told him not to string you along, but he was _convinced_ that he loved you, defended you to his last breath, wouldn’t hear anything of it.” His brow furrowed. “Dutch… wasn’t a man capable of love, Molly. Not the kind you were looking for. Annabelle wasn’t capable either, and that’s why they worked so well. Only Annabelle could _admit_ that romance wasn’t part of her person… Dutch, heh… Dutch was too much of a romantic to realize he wasn’t capable of romance.”

Molly dried her eyes with her shawl and blinked slowly before looking at Hosea. “Maybe there was just only one man for him.”

Hosea frowned and shook his head. “It wasn’t like that.”

Molly narrowed her eyes at him. “He looked at you in a way he never looked at me or any of the other girls. And when I was cast out of his bed and he wouldn’t touch me or even look at me, he kept inviting you in. Kept talkin’ with you, confidin’ in you. Kept holdin’ _your_ hand.” The words were those of an accusation, but Molly’s voice held nothing but exhaustion and sadness.

Hosea’s breath quickened and he shook his head again. “What Dutch and I had… it was just… that. Maybe it was friendship, maybe it was romance - I think it was neither. We were just… us. Friendship ain’t really the right word, but romance was separate. What I felt for _Bessie_ was romance, pure and true. Whatever I felt for Dutch… wasn’t that.” 

The image of Dutch’s twenty-one-year-old face flashed in his mind. A memory of a night in ‘75, where Hosea was teaching him how to ballroom dance in the middle of a moonlit meadow. Dutch’s smile was warm enough to ward off the autumn chill and the look in his eyes was burned into Hosea’s memory for how it made him feel such indescribable things. That was the night he knew they were more than best friends, but when Bessie came seven years later, Hosea fell fast and hard and could so easily tell that his feelings for her were romantic. 

Bessie made things _simple_ \- made his emotions shine like the stars and the sun, made him want to scream _“I love my wife!_ ” from every mountain top. Dutch made things complicated - made his emotions a tangled, shadowy, inky mess, with deep roots in the ground of friendship and branches stretching into who-the-fuck-knows.

Molly walked forward during this reverie until she was close enough to where Hosea could feel the puffs of her breath. He leaned back slightly, confused, when she suddenly grabbed him by Dutch’s handkerchief and hauled his face down to hers, lips parted-

Hosea’s body reacted with a jerk, yanking his head up and away so he towered over her as his hands gently seized her shoulders and forced her away at arms’ length. “Don’t,” he ground out. 

Molly blinked more tears out of her eyes, her breath hitching as she trembled. “The Pinkertons, the… Mr. Milton and Mr. Ross. Picked me up in Saint Denis. In the times I ran away, before the bank robbery.”

Hosea’s blood ran cold.

“I didn’t tell ‘em nothin’!” She swore, shaking harder, tears falling faster. “But they was just… _so scary._ They kept me in this cold room for twelve hours, leering and looming over me, _touchin’ me_ , talkin’ about all the ways they’d kill you all, promisin’ me amnesty if I became a rat. But I didn’t. _I couldn’t._ But they made me realize that I can’t make it out there on my own.” She reached her hands up to grasp at Hosea’s arms as she sobbed. “Please… I _need_ a man lookin’ out for me… I can’t…”

Hosea stared at her. “Did they… do anything, to you?” he asked, voice soft and gentle. 

Molly’s bottom lip trembled as she screwed her eyes shut and shook her head. She gasped and confessed, “They threatened to.”

Hosea’s brow knitted upwards as he stepped forward and folded Molly into a hug. She wept into his chest and hit gentle distraught fists against his shoulders, her legs giving out from under her as she wailed, “ _I couldn’t go to Dutch…_ I tried t’ tell him... the first couple times… But I couldn’t get two words out ‘cause he didn’t _ca-a-a-a-re…_ ”

Hosea closed his eyes and squeezed her harder as she hyperventilated and shook apart against his chest. The memories of Dutch being so callously dismissive of the woman at every turn, completely cutting her out of his life after having isolated her from every other soul and making her completely dependent on him, settled in Hosea’s throat like bile and made him feel sick. The fact that what Molly had to say, that Agents Milton and Ross were in Saint Denis before the bank robbery, was exactly the kind of tip that would have made them cut their losses and bail out of Saint Denis, could have _saved Dutch_ -

_Something about this job don’t feel right, Hosea._

A sob escaped Hosea’s throat, but a spike of rage made him bite it down. He was sick half to death of crying. Today was already going to be hard enough.

Instead, Hosea focused on keeping his breaths even, deep and steady, letting his eyes glass over as he stared at the far wall. Molly eventually stopped crying and took in a shuddering breath, relaxing in his hold and leaning back to look up at him through her lashes before closing her eyes and parting her lips, tilting her chin upwards. Hosea pushed her back on her feet and held her steady away from him.

“Molly,” he said gently, “you don’t need a man to live. You don’t need Dutch, never have. And you don’t need me. I’m a married man, Miss O’Shea, in more ways than one. There’s not enough room in this old heart of mine for another love. But you’re young.” She scoffed. “ _You are_ , in the grand scheme of things. You think restarting your life in your thirties is tough? I’m restarting mine at fifty-five!” 

She didn’t smile, but the upset lines of her face eased a little. “What am I gonna do?” she whispered.

Hosea let go of her when he was satisfied she wouldn’t lunge for him again. “You’re welcome to stay here, Molly. What Dutch did to you wasn’t right, and it shouldn’t define you. And if you’re willing to work hard, this little family will warm up to you in no time. You’re a fine woman who’s intelligent and crafty, and we’d be happy to help you be self-sufficient and live with us wherever we end up. Or you can ask Sadie to take you with her and help you find a ship back to Ireland. There’s no doubt in my mind that she would say yes.”

Molly worried at her shawl again for a long moment, deep in thought. Eventually, she looked up at Hosea with a frown. “I reckon you must be my only friend in the world, Hosea Matthews.” She glanced at the barn doors. “...Maybe Arthur, too.” She nodded to herself. “I… I’d like to stay here. If you’ll have me.”

Hosea smiled. “Welcome to the family. And to getting your hands dirty.” Molly wheezed an uneasy laugh, and Hosea passed her to open the barn door and gesture for her to step out. “Try checking in with Tilly!” he called after her.

It didn’t take long for him to spot Arthur at the hitching posts in front of the house, with Silver Dollar, Old Boy, one of the spare Morgans, and Killer all tacked up and hitched. Arthur was feeding the black/grey reverse-dapple thoroughbred a carrot, smiling softly as he caressed the stallion’s cheek and scratched behind his ear, pressing a chaste kiss to the horse’s white blaze in the shape of a sickle, his eyes twinkling as he spoke low and soft and sweet. Hosea’s eyes happily crinkled at the sight of the two of them. 

Killer, despite his name, was perhaps the sweetest, gentlest, dumbest, and most submissive horse around. Arthur had found the horse at the Valentine livery stables, when Hosea had taken him out to sell that Shire and get a new horse of his own for hunting that hellish bear. Arthur hadn’t been the same since Boadicea was shot and killed fleeing Blackwater, and the boy was almost killed himself when he insisted on cradling her head until she passed. The moment Hosea had killed the dolt who tried to rob him and found himself with the brutish Shire pinning his ears back at him, he knew that it was an opportunity for him to get Arthur out and away from the slog of muscle work and into nature with nothing but horses and Hosea - no robbing, no conning, no murdering, just time spent together.

In Valentine, Hosea had watched from the general store window as Arthur frantically stumbled out into the muddy yard beside the stable where the thoroughbred was tied up to a post looking like the saddest horse alive. One of the stablehands was holding a shotgun barrel up to the poor stallion’s head when Arthur slid between the gun and the horse, frantically waving the fistful of money he got from selling the Shire at the man. The two got to talking, and in only a few minutes, the man shouldered the gun and pushed the money back into Arthur’s hands before the two led the horse around the back and out of sight.

On the trail ride away from town, with Arthur mounted up on the back of said horse and his money spent on shiny new tack, Arthur explained that the thoroughbred had kicked and killed a little girl who had sprinted towards him from the rear to hide in a game of hide and seek, scaring the living daylights out of him. His hoof popped her in the head and caved it in, and the entire town was traumatized by it. The girl’s family insisted the horse be shot on the spot, and his previous owner had stepped in only to stop the townsfolk from shooting up the horse right then and there. He gave the horse away to the livery stable out of shame, which was also unable to convince the townsfolk to spare the horse - even the sheriff asked them to “just get it over with.” The poor stallion had refused to eat for three days and had stood with his face held low in the corner of his stall the whole time, so the owner reluctantly asked the stablehand to take the horse out back and shoot it.

Cue Arthur. He’d softly held the stallion’s head and cooed at him and got him to eat a fistful of hay. Apparently, the horse’s eyes focused for the first time and he swiveled his ears forward and nuzzled Arthur’s face, and Arthur fell in love. The stable owner told Arthur to take the horse for free and run. He ironically named the meek lug “Killer” for being anything but. Hosea had smiled as the boy reached down and stroked the stallion’s neck, murmuring _“Everyone deserves second chances.”_

Hosea had his own intense love for Killer, almost entirely because of how the horse carried Arthur unconscious across two states to bring him safely back home to them. They had to tie up the poor thing so that he’d stop trying to walk into Arthur’s tent, and Hosea spoiled him with carrots and sugar cubes while Arthur was bed-ridden. That horse was willing to run through fire and bullets to protect his boy, and listened to each and every order from him with total trust, so he’d earned a place in the old man’s heart.

Shaking himself from his reverie, Hosea turned to look for Susan and John in the din and called them over. After they finished what they were doing, they quickly made their way over to him, and Hosea led them away from the others to give them some privacy.

Once he was satisfied with the distance, he met their eyes and said, “Arthur and I are going back to Shady Belle and Saint Denis to get the money and bury Dutch. I wanted to ask each of you if you wanted to come.”

Susan frowned, a heavy thing, and turned to look at the others and the camp. After a long moment, she looked back to Hosea. “I’d like to be there when we bury the fool.”

Hosea nodded and gestured her towards Arthur and the spare horse. After she left, he turned to John, who had his gaze locked onto his boots, expression pinched. Hosea placed a soft hand on his shoulder to ground him, watching with concern as the boy bit his lip and clenched his fists.

Hosea leaned down to catch a glimpse of his eyes. “You don’t have to go if you don’t want to, son.”

John took in a shaky breath, then slowly let it out through his nose. He looked back and forth between Arthur and Hosea, then tightly crossed his arms across his chest and tucked his chin down. “I’ll go,” he said shortly, “but only for you and Arthur.”

Hosea knit his brow and frowned, but nodded and patted him on the shoulder. “Make sure you tell Abigail and Jack where you’re goi-”

“ _I know_ ,” John snapped, already marching away.

Hosea sighed and turned to go join Arthur and Susan, only to almost bounce off of Charles’s chest. He jolted back with a gasp and Charles ducked his head in apology.

“I figured you’d be going to bury Dutch,” Charles said softly, looking down at a large piece of wood in his hands. “So I’ve been using my time here to carve… this.” He slowly held it out to Hosea to inspect, and Hosea’s breath caught in his throat as he looked at the smooth, polished wood.

_†  
RIP  
DUTCH  
VAN DER LINDE _

Tears welled up in Hosea’s eyes and his hand shook as it traced the grooves of the neatly carved letters. He opened his mouth to speak, breath hitching, and swallowed before managing, “Charles… This is… This is....” He blinked the tears out of his eyes and shook his head, looking up at Charles and wrapping a fond hand around his elbow. “Thank you, son.”

Charles smiled softly and handed the wood to Hosea, rubbing a soft, calloused hand over his shoulder. “You’re not alone, Hosea.”

Hosea huffed and gave the man a genuine smile, pulling him in for a one-armed hug and squeezing him firmly, which Charles easily returned. “You be careful out scouting, okay?”

“I will be,” Charles chuckled, letting him go and mock-saluting him before walking off towards Taima.

Hosea quickly walked over to where Arthur and Susan were waiting and held up the wood. “Look what Charles made!”

Arthur’s expression simultaneously fell and softened, and Susan gave it a tired smile. “Good man,” she mused.

Arthur had busied himself needlessly brushing Killer so he wouldn’t have to look at it, so Hosea tied it on face-down behind Silver Dollar’s saddle, frowning at its awkward shape. John was finally making his way over to them, as armed to the teeth as Arthur was, and Hosea took that as his cue to check that Dutch’s Schofields were secure in their holsters and he had ample ammunition in his satchel before swinging up onto Silver Dollar. The others mounted their horses after him, Susan sitting primly side-saddle, and followed his lead as he walked Silver Dollar away and towards the path, where Sadie was standing guard.

“Going somewhere?” Sadie called out.

“Staying somewhere?” Arthur retorted.

“Waiting on that money you promised me,” she sniped back, giving Hosea an ornery look and making the man roll his eyes with a smile. “Thought I may as well guard over these fools, maybe teach these little girls how to kill a man with a knife twelve different ways while I wait.”

“I like your spirit,” Hosea chuckled, “and we’ll get you your money when we get back, don’t you worry! Let the others know we’re going into Lemoyne for a day or two, will you?”

Sadie made a show of shrugging and sighing. “I _guess_ I can do your dirty work for you.”

Hosea shook his head fondly and led them all into a canter down the path. They hadn’t even reached the road when Trelawny came galloping up to them on Gwydion, reining the horse in to canter next to Hosea. 

“Mind if I ride with you gentlemen - and lady - to Saint Denis before it gets exploded or shot up again?”

“Word travels fast,” John muttered.

Hosea sighed. “Of course, Josiah, but this is too many people to ride together. This’ll draw too much attention. We’ll have to split up and ride separately, rendezvous in Lagras to figure out what we wanna do. Arthur, Susan, Josiah? You three take the southern route past Emerald Ranch. John and I will follow the Kamassa River - I don’t want you three having to deal with Murfrees.”

Arthur scoffed. “I cough _one time_ , and you put me on the safe route?”

Hosea gave him a Look. “I’m putting you on _protection_. You and John bring a whole armory with you wherever you go, and Trelawny and Susan are capable, but your route is more likely to have law patrols.” Arthur wrinkled his nose when he didn’t have a retort, and settled for grumbling. Hosea turned his gaze to the three of them. “Now you lot should go on into the brush, exit onto the trail away from this path when it's clear. We’ll see you in Lagras.”

The three of them nodded and turned their horses west to ride off into the trees, but Arthur made sure to cast them a deeply worried glance first. Hosea figured he must be rubbing off on the boy.

He and John turned their horses east and rode into the brush, keeping a heavy silence between them until they came out onto the empty trail next to O’Creigh’s Run, keeping a steady pace towards Roanoke Ridge. John took the opportunity to ask, “Why didn’t you want to just tell the others what we’re doing?”

Hosea kept his eyes on their surroundings. “Because I didn’t want nineteen people to insist on riding out to bury Dutch. You, me, Arthur, and Susan… We were there first. We can bury him. If the others want to visit his grave, I can arrange teams for them to ride staggered out in.”

“Why didn’t you just take Arthur for this?”

Hosea took his eyes off the treeline and actually looked at John, his mouth sinking into a concerned frown as he looked the boy over. “You know, I wish you’d speak your mind, son. Something about this obviously ain’t sitting right with you.”

John’s hands tightened around the reins and he furrowed his brow, narrowing his eyes at nothing in particular. “It’s just… _God_.” He hissed out a breath between his teeth, and when he spoke again his voice shook, brittle and quiet. “This still doesn’t feel real.”

Hosea pulled Silver Dollar into a slow stop, making John stop beside him and look at him, bewildered. Hosea reached up and grabbed the back of his head and pulled him into a hug.

John trembled in Hosea’s arms, but shed no tears.

\--

The rest of the day’s ride to Lemoyne between him and John went more or less smoothly. Hosea kept trying to start gentle small-talk, but John either gave one-word answers or was so out of it that he didn’t say anything at all. Eventually, Hosea gave up. 

There was one incident as they were cutting through the forest to avoid the main roads where they ran into a gaggle of Murfrees picking over the mutilated corpses of some campers that resulted in a quick and dirty fire-fight. Hosea and John had put them down in seconds, but not before one’s bullet grazed Hosea’s shoulder, cutting through his coat and shirt to leave a shallow bloody groove in his arm. John had turned white as a sheet when he saw Hosea get hit, and swiftly put a bullet between the last Murfree’s eyes before rushing to his side and shrieking at him to disinfect and wrap it. Hosea was so shaken - not from the wound he’d barely reacted to, but the terror in the boy - that he mutely answered the request. 

When they made it into Lemoyne and were galloping along the wooden trails of the bog to make it through Bluewater Marsh to Lagras before nightfall, riding single-file to let other riders and wagons by, his coat off and wrapped around the grave marker for Dutch, Hosea risked a glance back at the boy. He looked completely out of it again, but they weren’t in any position to talk. Instead, Hosea spotted a band of three riders following them - not finely dressed lawmen, but burly men in ragged clothes with bandoliers slung over their chests. Bounty hunters.

“We’re being followed,” he said quietly to John, just loud enough for him to catch it.

John snapped his head back to look behind him, and when the riders saw that they were spotted, they urged their horses into a full sprint.

“ _Come on!_ ” Hosea called, spurring Silver Dollar into an extended sprint off the trail and into the thick undergrowth of the marsh, splashing up water and kicking up moss and algae. John raced Old Boy to his side, and together they flew through the wet and slippery terrain, expertly guiding their horses over patches that would allow them firmer footing and jumping them over fallen logs and weaving between trees as they dodged bullets. A loud splash, scream, and shriek of a horse informed them both that one of the bounty hunters behind them slipped and fell.

Hosea spotted alligators in the distance and spurred Silver Dollar straight towards them, John following suit without hesitation. Silver Dollar and Old Boy were a Turkoman and Hungarian Half-bred, fiery war horses who’d been with their loving riders for eighteen and ten years, respectively. Both of them simply pinned their ears back and bared their teeth as they bore down upon the lizards, who opened their mouths and turned to hiss at them. With the slightest of movements, Hosea and John danced their stallions between the lizards and dodged the snap of their jaws. Another scream of man and horse accompanied by a sickening _crunch_ behind them signaled that an alligator got a bounty hunter, and they glanced behind them to see the last horse standing scream and buck off their rider before bolting off into the distance.

Hosea continued to lead John at a full gallop through thick mud and trees and rough terrain until eventually they splashed through shallow water and clambered up a bank into the village of Lagras, slowing their horses into a walk, their legs caked with mud. As they made their way into the town, Hosea tipped his hat at folk as he guided Silver Dollar to a hitching post hidden a ways away from the road, finally dismounting and tying the reins to the post. John did the same on the other end, and Hosea fed Silver Dollar a fresh apple for being such a good boy, busying himself with scanning over the horse’s legs and wondering if it was worth it to brush the mud out.

He gave Lagras a long once-over, looking for any sign of the other three, before deciding that he may as well. 

“I’m proud of you,” he murmured to John when he reached Silver Dollar’s second leg after cleaning the first. “That was a rough ride. We even managed not to kill anyone.”

John had been keeping wary eyes on their surroundings while Hosea worked, arms crossed, and he didn’t look away when he replied, “Do Murfrees not count as killin’?”

“I don’t reckon serial killer rapist cannibals count, no.”

John slid his eyes over to him, expression blank. “And those three bounty hunters? At least one of them’s definitely dead, probably two. That don’t count as killin’?”

Hosea sighed and started working on Silver Dollar’s third leg. “We didn’t _make_ them throw themselves on those alligators, John.”

John scowled and shook his head. “Three days dead and Dutch still has us killin’ people.”

Hosea slowly stood up and looked at the boy, his face cast in shadow by the setting sun. “What’s gotten into you?” he snapped.

John uncrossed his arms and opened his mouth to challenge him when they both heard Arthur’s voice call “Thomas! Jules! Howdy, how you doin’?!”

Hosea made a face at John, lips pulled thin and brow pinched upwards, and said “We’ll talk about this later.” John scowled at his boots.

In just under a minute, Arthur, Susan, and Trelawny walked their horses over to the two of them, Susan and Arthur bickering amongst each other.

“-wish you’d treat that horse better, Miss Grimshaw.”

“Ain’t my fault if the dumb animal kept trying to run me off into the distance!”

“You didn’t have to be so rough on the bit, you’ll injure her poor mouth!”

“Then it shouldn’t act out!”

“She wasn’t acting out, she was testing you!”

“How the hell-”

“Gentlemen,” Trelawny interrupted, looking over Hosea and John’s mud-caked horses and the bloody bandage peeking out through the hole in Hosea’s shirt, “you look a bit worse for wear.”

Hosea didn’t look up from where he was furiously working out the last of the mud on Silver Dollar’s fourth leg, but he heard the concern in Arthur’s voice when he asked, “Where’d you get that?!”

“Just some Murfrees, I’m _fine_.”

John met Arthur’s eyes. “We killed some bounty hunters. One of them might’ve gotten away after seeing our faces.”

Hosea threw a hand up. “They killed _themselves_ upon some _alligators,_ and they saw us riding _away_ from Saint Denis.”

Arthur made a low, pained noise. “Trouble like that this soon after we barely made it out, before we’ve even done what we came here to _do?_ ”

Hosea scrubbed off the last flecks of mud and wiped off the brush on the bottom of his boot, shoving it back into the saddle-bag before wrapping a white-knuckled hand around the saddle-horn and pressing his other arm flat against the side of the saddle, mashing his forehead into it as his body shook with frustration. He heard Arthur dismount from Killer and heard his boots tentatively step across the ground towards him, but flinched away when he felt the air displaced from his outstretched hand.

“I made a bad call,” he ground out, heaving in a shaky breath to cling onto his composure. “I knew that route was busy, but I thought we could take a gamble for less chance of breaking the horses’ legs and entering the marsh at night. That gamble blew up in my face. The risks of this were greater, I see that now.” He heaved another shaky breath.

Susan’s mouth thinned into a grim line. “You two boys should be ashamed of yourselves, doubting that man after all he’s done for you? He had perfectly fine reasoning, it was just bad luck! Apologize!”

“ _Lay off them, Susan_ ,” Hosea snapped, his voice tight. He looked at her and shook his head, letting all the frustration and fear and anger leave his body with a slow breath. “They’re keeping me honest.” He looked at Arthur, then kept his gaze on John. “Thank you. We need to be extra careful from here on out. I’m sorry.”

Arthur finally pressed a soft hand to Hosea’s back as John’s expression similarly softened. 

Hosea turned to Trelawny, who had been staring resolutely at anything but their little broken family’s private moment. “Josiah, you should ride hard for Saint Denis right now, beat any news that may have gotten out. Don’t worry about finding us or contacting us again. Just make the decision that’s right for you.”

Josiah looked at him long and hard, his eyebrows forming a small tent, before he nodded. “Thank you for everything, Hosea.”

“And same to you, old friend.”

Trelawny turned Gwydion and galloped off, and Hosea steadied himself against Silver Dollar as he looked at Arthur, John, and Susan. “Now… we need to figure out how we’re doing this. I’d prefer we all stick together from here, and… I can’t stop thinking about Dutch’s body. I know I’d feel best if we secured it first.”

Arthur shrugged. “Okay, so… we get Dutch’s body, bury it somewhere nearby-”

Hosea shuddered. “Oh, no, we can’t.”

John squinted at him in confusion. “Why not?”

Hosea pinched the bridge of his nose. “If we bury Dutch in the same soil as Confederates, we won’t have to worry about mourning him, ‘cause he’ll crawl out of the ground to come shoot us.”

John huffed, “That’s stupid.”

Arthur frowned at John, but looked at Hosea and asked, “...Where would we bury him, then, if not in Lemoyne? Maybe just north of the state line, near the Kamassa river?”

Hosea hugged himself and fought off a wave of nausea. “No, not that close to Murfree territory. They dig up bodies to have sex with.”

Arthur blanched and leaned forward onto his knees as John snapped, “So why not just bury him in Lemoyne?! His feelings ain’t gonna be hurt, he’s _dead_ , we’re acting too sentimental.”

“John,” Arthur warned, voice low, glaring at him from under the brim of his hat.

John violently threw his hands up with a flick of his forearms and stormed off, growling “Choose your damn selves then and leave me out of this.”

Arthur turned after him with a snarl on his face, but Hosea’s gentle hand stilled him and made him turn around. Hosea looked at him, exhausted. “Let him be,” he said quietly. 

Susan tutted. “You’re too soft on that boy. The _disrespect…?_ ”

“The _grief_ ,” Hosea corrected, pinching the bridge of his nose again as he felt a sharp pressure building between his temples.

Arthur placed a tentative hand on Hosea’s shoulder and wet his lips, swallowing multiple times before venturing, “Maybe… Maybe we can send him out onto the ocean on a little boat? Set it on fire like one of them Viking funerals? Send him to Tahiti?” His eyes crinkled when Hosea huffed a laugh. 

“I’m sure he’d appreciate the drama of that, but… I’d hate it.”

Susan gave a strained sigh, like she always did when she was forcing patience. “We’re running out of options here, Hosea.”

Hosea dragged a hand down his face. “If I had it my way, I’d bury him on the top of a mesa in the Heartlands, facing the setting sun.”

Susan perked up. “There! Now, see? Why don’t we do that?”

Arthur slowly removed his hand from Hosea’s shoulder and took a step back. “I… Hosea, that’s... an eight-hour long ride. At least. And it’s been… It’s been _three days_ , in _Lemoyne_ , that we haven’t been able to get to his body. We’d have to carry-” he took an uneasy breath “-him in the state he’s in for almost half a day, in this damp heat, and- and-” he ducked his head, voice breaking, “I don’t know if I can look at him like that for that long.”

Susan wobbled in the saddle and looked away.

Hosea stared at the ground and nodded slightly. “I can send you all ahead and I can carry him there by myself.” He turned and reached into one of his saddle-bags, pulling up a finely folded tarp to peek out. “I packed this to… hold him together.”

Arthur let out a slow breath. “I… If you… You’d really be able to stand that? Alone? For _eight hours?_ ”

Hosea looked up and met Arthur’s eyes, then drew himself up to his full height, nodding resolutely. “I want… _Need…_ to bury him, Arthur. And I know this would make him happy. I never want to subject you or John or Susan to anything more than you’re comfortable with, and I…” He screwed his eyes shut before forcing himself to look at Arthur, Susan, and John in the distance. “When we find him, it’s going to be _horrible_. It’s going to be worse than all the other times we’ve buried family members, ‘cause we either buried them immediately or carried them in freezing mountains or were never able to get to them. I’ll need help finding and getting his body, wherever it is, and probably digging the hole too, but I can handle the rest. I want to shield you all from as much of this as I can.”

Arthur took in a slow breath and shifted his weight, twitching his hand like he was rolling a cigarette between his fingers. After a long moment, he said, “All right. And I’m sure John will be too, if he can get his head out of his ass.”

Susan resituated herself in the saddle. “Shouldn’t we go after the money first, then?”

Arthur nodded, still soothing himself with the hand gesture. “We should rest before going after his body, too. Five hours, at least. You’ve been brutal on your body recently, ‘Sea.”

Hosea frowned at them both, a cloying panic crawling up his spine worrying about Dutch’s body somehow being lost during that time, but he swallowed it down and nodded, squeezing Arthur heavily and firmly on the shoulder. “Okay. Then that’s what we’ll do. Together, we’ll go get the money, rest for five hours outside Saint Denis, and then sneak in and try to steal his body before the sun rises.”

After wrangling a sullen John back into the group, they updated him on the plan - the man simply nodded without looking at them - before they moved Dutch’s grave marker onto Susan’s Morgan, swung back up onto their horses, and rode off into the bayou, staying off the roads and cutting through the wilds to reach the location where Dutch stashed the gang’s savings. It was well and truly dark by then, and the landmarks were difficult to spot, but not impossible. Hosea walked up to a hollow tree and pulled a shovel out of it in silence, moving to a spot in the middle of a triangle of rocks before breaking ground and starting to dig. Arthur quickly came up beside him and whispered “You should save your strength for later, let me.”

Hosea wordlessly pushed the shovel to his chest and stepped aside, staring around them into the darkness with his hands resting on the handles of Dutch’s Schofields as Susan antsily fidgeted and John rested his forearms on his saddle-horn, glowering down into Old Boy’s mane. There was a dull _thunk_ a few minutes later as Arthur hit the wood of the chest, and he turned to quickly help Arthur haul the chest out of the ground and unlock it with the key in his pocket. Arthur hauled out the money bag with a little over fifteen grand in it and lugged it over to sling over Killer’s rump.

With the money secure, they abandoned the chest but took the shovel, riding out across the wilderness in the dark to a remote spot on the northern outskirts of Saint Denis. They stopped in the cover of the trees and dismounted, settling down into the damp grass to rest. Hosea flicked open his pocket watch and noted to his chagrin that it was already 9 o’clock. It would be 2 in the morning when they’d be able to set out. He snapped his watch shut and clenched it in his fist, white-knuckled, to stare coldly out at the lights of Saint Denis in the distance.

He flinched at the touch of Arthur’s hand on his shoulder, and the boy jumped at the harsh movement. Arthur frowned and whispered, “I can take watch if you’re worried, you need to rest…”

Hosea’s expression became pinched. “I don’t reckon I’ll be able to.”

Arthur’s frown deepened. “ _Please?_ Try? For me?”

Hosea looked at John, who was watching them silently with concerned eyes, his back pressed up against a tree with his knees pulled to his chest. When he saw Hosea’s eyes on him, he nodded slightly in encouragement. 

In a last ditch effort, he looked at Susan, who smacked him sharply on the wrist and hissed “ _Rest_.”

With a sigh, Hosea tucked the pocket-watch back into his pocket and nudged at Arthur. “You should rest as well, son.” He looked at Susan and John. “Would one of you be comfortable staying up to be on watch?”

Susan tssked and whispered, “I don’t imagine I’d be much help grave-robbing in the city. I’m happy to stay up all night and watch over this spot if need be. You boys should save what strength you can so you’re sharp and capable in there. I would just _die_ if I heard a storm of gunfire start up.”

Hosea forced a smile in thanks and then curled up on his side, facing away from the others and covering his face with his hat. He idly undid Dutch’s handkerchief and wrapped it around his hand, smoothing his thumb back and forth across it until he slipped into an uneasy, light slumber.

His consciousness faded in and out several times, hyper-aware of every twig snap and groan of the trees in the wind and the sound of the others around him. Particularly Arthur’s cough. His joints were complaining about lying on the bare ground, but his body felt half-detached from him, making it more of a dull ache. It was simultaneously much too soon and not soon enough when Susan began rapidly tapping the three of their hips and whispering, “Gentlemen, it’s time.”

Hosea dragged himself upright and scrubbed a hand over his face to chase away the exhaustion. Instead, he undid his vest and took Dutch’s letter out of his shirt pocket and tucked it away in Silver Dollar’s saddle-bag for safe-keeping. If he was killed, he wanted the boys to be able to find and read it.

After shoving his vest and hat and Dutch’s handkerchief into the saddle-bag, he pulled out a flat cap and slapped it upon his head. He then yanked his shirt out from where it was tucked into his pants and let it cover his gun-belt, Dutch’s revolvers making only faint indents. Arthur and John were only just begging to clamber to their feet when Hosea leaned down and scooped up a large handful of moist dirt, then began haphazardly smearing it all over his shirt and pants and face. Susan shrieked in a dismayed inhale, but held her tongue.

John and Arthur, meanwhile, were blinking at him like owls. Hosea cocked an eyebrow at them and began rolling up his sleeves. “You didn’t think we were going in there without disguises, did you?” he whispered. “Now go on.”

He waited as the boys took off their outer clothes and fancy spurs; Arthur swapped his hat for a flat cap of his own while John mussed his hair to hang wildly over his face and over his scars. They untucked their shirts to cover their own gunbelts and mirrored Hosea in grabbing moist dirt to smear over themselves. In any other circumstance, Hosea would have smiled fondly at their efforts, but he couldn’t muster the energy to feel much of anything.

After they’d finished wiping their hands on their jeans, Hosea reached into his saddle-bag and put on thick leather work gloves, grabbing the tarp and shoving it into his back pocket before picking up the shovel. “Stay safe, Susan,” he whispered. She nodded, pursing her lips at them as she anxiously stroked the Morgan’s nose. “Boys… It’s time.”

Arthur and John nodded mutely, and together, they began walking towards Saint Denis.

\--

Cities never seemed to sleep. Hosea had many memories of small towns, and he couldn’t remember a single one of them that didn’t have at least half an hour during the night where all the windows were dark and the town was silent and still. Saint Denis’s lamps burned brightly, and the sound of talking, music, laughing, and the distant sound of horse hooves reverberated all around them as they slowly walked through the shadows of buildings and slinked through back alleyways, meandering their way through the city and past thick officer and Pinkerton patrols towards the back lot of the police station.

The nearer they got, the thicker the patrols were. They were quietly stepping through one back alleyway when Hosea heard two patrols approaching from opposite directions, one on each side of the alley. He glanced frantically around, realized there was no escape, and urged the boys to quickly lean back against the wall and act casual. Hosea leaned on his shovel and fumbled for an asthma cigarette, letting all tension go from his body as he stuck it in his mouth and lazily dug around in his satchel for a match. 

Lantern light from two teams of officers illuminated them from either end of the alleyway, and the officers tensed at the sight of the three of them. Arthur was inspecting the bottom of his boot, long hair conveniently hanging down over his muddy face, and John was yawning. One of the officers cleared his throat and demanded, “State your names and your business. You gentlemen are breaking curfew.”

Hosea lowered his matchbox and innocently blinked at the man, sagging slightly in exhaustion before saying in smooth French, “Excusez-moi, on essaie de rentrer, notre patron nous a retardés.”

One of the officers on the other side perked up. “Êtes-vous des travailleurs de la construction?”

Hosea removed his cigarette from his mouth and ducked his head meekly. “Oui. Nous ne sommes pas rentrés depuis l’incendie.”

The officer rolled his shoulders. “Très bien, alors je vous suggère de filer.” And with that, he gestured for the other officers to continue walking, and the lantern light left them as Hosea led them out into the middle of the street in a miserable, sagging walk.

When they were finally safe behind the cover of a building, Arthur and John looked at him, impressed. Hosea gave both boys a single pat on the back.

A few minutes later, they’d managed to sneak into the network of back alleys that led to the dusty back lot of the police station. Hosea signaled for the boys to stop as they approached the wooden privacy fence, and slowly sidled up to a small hole in the wood, peeking through it.

He saw the yard, dimly lit by a single lantern, with a body wagon parked in the back. The back door to the police station opened and a bounty hunter - Hosea’s blood chilled when he recognized the outfit as the one who fell early in their chase - carry a dead body over his shoulder, a Lemoyne Raider, to drop in the wagon. Dusting off his hands, he turned back around to the police chief and asked, “You fellers got time to bury criminals after having to bury so many lawmen?”

The police chief gave the hunter a grim frown from the doorway, gesturing back inside. “No. Hell, we’re still not done with the funerals. We’ve been sending the trash off to the morgue to dump in the furnace ever since the Van der Lindes-” and shut the door behind them.

Hosea covered his mouth and collapsed, shoulders shaking in silent sobs as Arthur and John kneeled to catch him, Arthur mouthing a pained _Dammit!_

They stayed like that for several minutes, reeling at the thought of Dutch being reduced to nameless, formless ash mixed in with countless other burned bodies of cut-throat rapists and Raiders. Hosea curled in on himself and slammed a fist into the ground, baring his teeth as enraged tears slid down his cheeks, John clinging to and rubbing his back as Arthur peeked through the hole again.

All three of them jolted when the sharp noise of a distressed horse sounded through the streets. Hosea and John scrambled upright to see where it came from, and all three men peeked through or above the fence to spy an albino Arabian - utterly filthy, mane and tail matted, with the saddle hanging sideways and blood oozing down their body from where the cinch was sawing into their skin and from the corners of their mouth from the bit - amble into the body yard and swivel their ears around, breathing and sniffing heavily at all the dried blood stains and the cart.

“Is that _The Count?_ ” John hissed as Hosea choked at the sight.

“Oh, _boy…_ ” Arthur whined.

The Count jerked his head up when he heard them and swiveled his ears back, eyes searching his surroundings frantically before smelling the cart again and launching away with a start, hastily trotting back to the road. All three men rushed after the stallion, struggling to keep pace with him as he weaved haphazardly through the alleys and the streets, stopping occasionally to sniff the air heavily before determinedly resuming his journey.

After about fifteen minutes, they were hurrying as fast as they dared through the condensed poor shanties on the outskirts of the city, tracking his hoof-prints. Ten minutes later, they finally found him, wandering around and around a potter’s field while making low, distressed noises.

Hosea felt his heartbeat pound in his ears. “A potter’s field,” he breathed, looking around at the patchy sea of scraggly sticks and short, squat, blank stones intermingled with unmarked graves. “Of course. God, what an insult that would be, putting Dutch van der Linde in a pauper’s grave while holding honored funerals for their dead…”

“Let’s hope they’re dramatic, vindictive bastards,” Arthur muttured.

Hosea’s hand clenched around the shovel as he marched into the field. Arthur began slowly approaching The Count, making soft, soothing noises, gently begging him to calm down and let him get close. John uneasily followed behind Hosea, delicately stepping across the dead earth littered with trash and broken glass, wondering if he was walking on anyone’s body.

Hosea stopped at the first fresh grave and quickly started digging. The graves were shallow and haphazard, no more than four feet deep, so he hoped - desperately - that he’d be able to find Dutch before the sun rose. He heard his shovel hit something that made a _thunk_ noise, squinted down to see pine wood, and quickly moved away from it towards the next fresh grave.

John stared after him and whispered “Ain’t we gonna check in there?”

Hosea sank the shovel into the second plot of loose soil. “They wouldn’t give Dutch the grace of a casket. They’d want his corpse to rot as fast as possible.”

John frowned uneasily and rubbed his elbow. He scanned around for anything he could use to help and spotted a shovel on the ground on the outskirts of the field. He hurried to retrieve it, then made his way back near Hosea, sinking his own shovel into a fresh plot not far off.

Meanwhile, Arthur had managed to sidle close enough to The Count to tenderly pat his neck, quietly whispering for him to calm down. The Count pinned his ears back and danced on his feet, and Arthur murmured “Lemme get these off you, boy, just- hang on-” and with quick fingers, he undid the bridle and yanked it off and out of his mouth, making him shriek and kick out at him. He dodged his hoof narrowly and then let him skitter away, holding his hands up in appeasement, constantly whispering, “Shh, I know… I’m sorry, boy… It’s okay…”

The tip of Hosea’s shovel hit something soft, so he tossed it to the ground and knelt to dig away at the dirt, revealing a black man’s face, the moonlight illuminating the deep cuts of lynch marks around his neck. “Poor bastard,” Hosea muttered, hurriedly dumping the dirt back over the man’s face with his hands before standing up and hurrying towards the next plot. He paused when he saw a dark-skinned woman staring at them on the edge of the field.

With a pained sigh, Hosea held a hand up at her and hurried toward her. She remained rooted to the spot, still staring at him as he approached, although he saw her body tense up when he got close. “Pardon me, Ma’am,” he said softly, slowly setting his shovel down and putting his hands up. “I’m- the uncle to these boys you see behind me, we’re looking for their father. We think he was buried here by mistake. We weren’t able to claim him in time because-” He saw her start to back away, eyes full of cunning that saw right through him, and he ducked his head in and drew his body up to make himself smaller. “Okay. Hold on.” 

He slowly reached into his satchel and pulled out a wad of cash, counting out two-hundred dollars. He gently held it out to her. “I don’t want any trouble, and I ain’t gonna hurt you. Please. Take this.”

The woman’s brow quirked up, and she paused. Warily, she approached him again, intelligent eyes searching him over for signs of betrayal. With a slender, sly hand, she plucked the money and counted it out quickly, her eyes widening before shoving it into her dress pocket. She stared at Hosea for a few more seconds before grinning. “Hell, I’ll even keep lookout for you, fancy man.”

Hosea opened his mouth to thank her when he heard a sharp whimper come from John behind him. He whirled around just in time to see John frantically crawl away from a grave and puke his guts out.

Hosea sprinted across the field to the grave John had dug up and fell down to his knees beside it in seconds, feeling his heart stop at the sight.

There, in the loose dirt of the unmarked grave, was Dutch’s face. His skin was sickeningly pale, and Hosea knew that if the sun were beating down on them it would have a slightly green tint. Dark, crusty, dried blood clung to so much of his skin, and he saw an insect crawl through the bullet-hole in his cheek. His eyes, never closed, were milky-white and a pale sickly blue, misshapen from decay and half-covered in dirt.

The smell was unholy.

“Is that…” Arthur said quietly, voice shaking, dropping the bloody saddle and saddle-pad in his hands as he approached.

“Yes,” Hosea said. Cold. Flat. Distant. Barely registering the world anymore. “Help me get him out of here.”

With a low, pained noise, Arthur picked up the shovel that John had abandoned, and together they worked to unearth the rest of Dutch’s body. John staggered even further away from them and refused to look, instead focusing his attention on The Count to try and soothe him as he inched closer to the grave and called out in small, low whinnies.

When Dutch’s body was fully uncovered, Hosea pulled out the tarp from his pocket and unfolded the massive thing with the help of Arthur. The two of them knelt beside Dutch’s body and swiftly covered it with the tarp, then helped each other in a quick back-and-forth to lift and shift the body to wrap the tarp securely around it. Arthur flinched away and fell backwards when bloody foam oozed out of the tarp, leaving Hosea to finish wrapping and fastening it.

“Go.” Hosea’s voice sounded foreign for how low and dull it was. “Take John. I’ve got it from here. I’ll meet you in the Heartlands.”

Arthur hesitated for a long moment, but raised his arm to cover his mouth and nose and staggered away. He grabbed John’s arm and together they quickly walked to the edge of the field, where they whistled sharply for the horses. In only a few minutes, Killer and Old Boy came bounding up to meet them, and Silver Dollar galloped past into the center of the field to meet Hosea and touch noses with The Count. Three lanterns of lawmen came to investigate the whistles, but the woman Hosea paid off scurried up to meet them before they even reached the field, frantically pointing in the opposite direction and leading them away.

Hosea waited until he saw Arthur and John gallop off into the dark before he leaned down and wedged his arms under Dutch’s body, carefully scooping him against his chest in a bridal carry. He braced himself, breathing in deeply to pump himself up, then with a loud growl of effort stood up with half a dozen pops and clicks of joints. 

“I’ve got you, love,” he said quietly, resituating his grip before staggering over to Silver Dollar’s hindquarters and heaving Dutch’s body onto him, quickly securing it behind the saddle. He abandoned the stained gloves on the ground and pulled a bandana out of his satchel along with a flask of Kentucky Bourbon, dousing the cloth in the potent alcohol before tying it around his face. He swapped out the flat cap for his hat, secured the shovel into a weapon slot, and then swung up into the saddle, patting Silver Dollar on the neck. 

The Count nosed at Dutch’s body and made another low, broken noise, before sidling up beside Hosea and looking at him expectantly. Hosea reached into his saddle-bag and took out a bottle of potent horse medicine, firmly grasping the horse's chin and pouring it into his mouth to rinse out the blood and puss and disinfect his sores. He flattened his ears and tossed his head, and in any other circumstances he would have tried to bite a chunk out of his arm, but instead he only shook his head and snorted before looking to him for direction again.

Hosea stared ahead at the darkness that laid outside Saint Denis, took a deep breath, and then urged Silver Dollar into a steady yet determined gallop, The Count following at his heels.

\--

The eight hour ride passed in a blurry, fluid, numb buzz of light and darkness.

There were stretches where Hosea seemed hyper-present in the saddle, aware of every sound in the surrounding mile as he traveled through the wilderness with the body of his best friend, sensing the weight of it behind him as his eyes fixed on every little movement around him. In other stretches, his eyes glazed over and he felt like he was floating far above himself, watching from a distance as he and the horses weaved across the roads, waded through rivers, bounded through creek beds, and forged through forests and rolling grassy hills. 

The moon rolled across the sky and the stars danced towards the horizon. Hosea blinked and the horizon went from dark to lilac. He blinked again and the sun had risen, bathing the sky in reds and oranges and pale yellows. He felt his soul stretched across multitudes, existing in so many different times at once.

Dutch’s nineteen-year-old face, barely able to grow facial hair, speaking rapturously as he stared up at the night sky from amongst the grass, his loose black curls framing his face, his eyes reflecting the stars before turning to him with the same look of awe.

_You are a man of high caliber, Hosea Matthews. We’re going to face the future together, I just know it._

Dutch’s same face at the age of thirty, his hair obsessively pulled back with pomade, his upper lip finally bearing that mustache he'd been trying to grow for so long, a shadow over his wild eyes and mouth pulled back in a snarl.

 _Loyalty, Hosea, it isn’t… I’ve been nothing but loyal to you all these years, and this is how you repay me?!_ Leave _me? I_ made _you._

Dutch’s face three years later, his slight layer of fat long since burned away into gaunt cheeks and corded muscle from stress and endless rough riding, hair mussed with wild strands hanging over his red and blotchy tearstained face, dark bloodshot eyes looking up at him in desperation.

_I can’t- She was everything to me, Hosea. Now, you’re- y-you’re all I have left. I can’t exist without you, I need you, Hosea. I need you. Please. Don’t you ever leave me. Not again. Please. Promise me you won’t ever leave me again._

Smooth hands, rough hands. Eyes twinkling with clarity, eyes clouded by mania. Mouth curved upwards in a warm smile, or twisted into an angry sneer. A gentle touch to give or seek comfort, or sharp and painful grips to push him away or pull him closer.

Love. Fear. Danger. Safety. 

_I love you._

_I love you, too._

He slowly sank into himself as he spotted horse tracks break off the trail and head into the mesas. He turned Silver Dollar off the trail and followed them upwards into the towering steppes of the Heartlands, and it wasn’t much longer that he spotted John, Arthur, and Susan standing on a ridge overlooking the sprawling land beyond, basking warmly in the shining sun.

He slowed Silver Dollar to a stop a ways off, The Count limping to a stop not far behind. He pulled off his bandana and dismounted, grabbing the shovel before walking up to the rest of his family.

“You’ve picked a good spot,” he said, voice faint.

Arthur nodded mutely, eyes locked on the body on Silver Dollar. John made no reaction at all, just kept staring off at the land, his arms crossed over his chest. Susan brushed a lock of hair behind her ear and forced a smile, saying, “It’s a fine place for a final rest.”

Hosea shrugged, and without any fanfare, broke the ground with his shovel.

The work creating the six-foot-deep hole took a little over an hour. Arthur, John, and Hosea rotated around the work, stepping in for one or the other when they grew too fatigued while Susan stood guard. When they had the hole made, Hosea whistled for Silver Dollar to walk over; when the horse was close, he went up to his side and untied Dutch’s body, gently easing it off and into his arms. Arthur was by his side in a second, cautiously taking Dutch’s feet, and Hosea numbly nodded his thanks as he grabbed Dutch’s shoulders. Together, they eased the body over the hole and then knelt down, gently lowering him down into it.

With Dutch in the ground, Hosea and Arthur stood up, grabbed the shovels, and began covering him in dirt. John stared down at Dutch as the other two worked, arms hugged around his middle, face red and eyes wet with tears he refused to shed, his jaw clenched and bottom lip trembling.

Susan raised an eyebrow, her hands crossed in front of her. “Is there something you want to say, John?”

John wiped his tears away with his hand and hissed out a breath between his teeth. “I know I’m supposed to be sad and all, but, _God_ , I just… I can’t… Fuck. I’m just so _angry_.”

Susan narrowed her eyes. “ _Excuse_ me? What you angry for?!”

John scoffed and began antsily pacing back and forth between Hosea and Arthur. “Hell, I don’t know, Miss Grimshaw, maybe I’m angry about the way he was treating me near the end. Or, hell, had _always_ treated me. Or treated Arthur, treated _you_ , treated Hosea!”

Arthur paused in his shoveling to squint at John and shake his head. “ _What_ are you on about _now?_ ”

John whirled on him. “ _We’re in this mess because of him!_ ” he screamed. “Kieran, Sean, Jenny, Davey, Mac?! Is all _his fault!_ ” John punctuated it with two stabs of his finger in Arthur’s chest, prompting Arthur to harshly shove him away.

“You watch your damn mouth!” Arthur snarled.

Hosea threw down his shovel and stared at his two boys in dismay.

John was breathing hard, his eyes wide and wet, fists clenching and unclenching. “You’re still _blindly defending him_ , even now!”

Arthur opened his mouth only for Susan to stomp up in front of him and shriek at John, “He ain’t even _buried yet_ and you’re defaming him like this?!”

“ _Defaming him?!_ ” John narrowed his eyes at them. “You weren’t there in Blackwater. You didn’t see what I saw. She was a young, unarmed lady, belly round with child, and Dutch shot her in the face just because she screamed for help. Should I describe how the back of her skull blew out? How her eyeball went swinging on a piece of tendon?!”

Arthur’s eyes widened as Susan screamed “ _If Dutch did that then there must have been a good reason!_ ”

John stepped up to her almost nose-to-nose and spat “Well maybe you didn’t know him as well as you think you did.”

The _crack_ of the impact of Susan’s hand with John’s face sent him flying to the ground, prompting Arthur to kneel protectively over him as Hosea tackled her away from the boys.

Before anyone could do anything, John yelled, “ _He threatened my family!_ ”

Everyone froze. Arthur, with his hands on John’s shoulders; Hosea, holding Susan at arm’s length; Susan, hands still on Hosea’s forearms where she had been grappling with him.

Hosea’s eyes searched John’s face and saw only fear and sadness. “What?” he breathed.

John swallowed. “In Shady Belle. He called me over, he said… He said that…” His eyes grew distant. “That I was ‘playing’ at family. Told me to remember that the gang comes first… over them… I-” He shook his head. “He got real scary with me. Looked like he wanted to hurt me. He was…” He huffed a breath. “Scary.”

Slowly, Arthur eased down onto the ground to sit beside him. Hosea and Susan came over as well, easing themselves down onto the ground next to John and the grave.

John crossed his legs and rested his elbows on his knees. “The night we went after Bronte, you didn’t see him then. He was acting crazy and scary. Blackwater, he was acting crazy and scary, only less so. Before Blackwater, he was just…” he let out a long sigh. “Crazy. And mean.” He looked up at Arthur, Susan, and Hosea. “He acted all fancy and said real pretty words, but I keep looking back on our lives and it all just feels like a cheap excuse to hurt and kill people. I keep looking back and realizing how he treated me like shit-” he looked at Arthur “-treated you like shit, all the women in his life like shit-” he gestured at Hosea “-treated _you_ like shit.”

A heavy silence hung in the air at John’s words. Susan was holding her face in her hand, and Arthur had ducked his head, furiously doing the hand gesture he did in moments like these, rolling his fingers over, under, through. Over, under, through. John was rocking himself back and forth slightly.

Quietly, tentatively, Hosea confessed, “The year after Bessie died… When I went back to him, and wasn’t right in the head, he… took advantage of me.” Three pairs of eyes snapped up to him. “He put me in situations that I wouldn’t want to be in and made me say things I wouldn’t want to say and made me do things I wouldn’t want to do, and he knew it. If he told me then to jump off a cliff I probably would’ve done it. I put the ruins of my life in his hands and he...” Hosea shook his head, voice failing him.

Susan frowned at him, expression pinched, eyes wide with sorrow. “I didn’t know,” she said quietly. “With Annabelle there I thought… If I had known…”

After another long stretch of silence, Arthur cleared his throat. “I…” he paused, searching for the words. “He...” He made a frustrated noise and sped up the movements of his hands, his breath growing faster. “I never thought Dutch did me wrong. Not once in my whole life, because I’d spent six years with a father who beat the shit outta me for every little thing I did and didn’t do and didn’t know about, made me feel like a burden and an invalid. Putting Dutch up against _Lyle Morgan_ -” he spat the name “-the man seemed like a damned saint. He never raised a hand to me or anyone else, and he… that made me feel safe.” Susan frowned down at her hands. “But… I never thought… I didn’t realize the feeling because I was never scared Dutch would hit me, but you know the sad thing? I’m thirty-six damn years old, and there were _still_ times he made me feel like I was walking on eggshells just like Lyle did. Only Dutch used his words instead of his fists. I thought it was just because I didn’t wanna disappoint him, but… I was afraid of him.”

Hosea closed his eyes for a long moment, remembering the years he toiled trying to get Arthur comfortable with saying no to him and setting boundaries, all while Dutch kept punishing him for doing the same with him - never with violence, but with disapproving looks, put-upon sighs, passive-aggressive slamming of doors and objects, and sharp comments meant to cut Arthur to the core, a steady litany of ‘ _I thought I could count on you_ ’ or ‘ _So much for you having my back_ ’ or ‘ _I see my dedication to you is returned._ ’ When Arthur saying no to him had dried up to a trickle and then to nothing, Dutch weaponized it. With a sigh, Hosea opened his eyes and put a hand on the nape of Arthur’s neck, massaging at the tight coil of muscle there. A bitter truth was rising up from his throat like blood on the tongue.

He reached his free hand out to grasp John’s, and quietly said, “I was immune to most of Dutch’s antics, but the one thing he knew he could always use against me was you boys.” He grimaced and hung his head in shame before forcing himself to look at Arthur. “Every time he and I were fighting a fight he knew he couldn’t win, he’d call you over and insist you break the tie.” Arthur’s expression tightened and his eyes grew wet. “I want you to know I _never_ held that against you. And son, if you’ve ever blamed yourself because of that day he asked you about Bronte, _don’t_. None of this was your fault. Dutch made his choices.”

A shaking breath swept out of Arthur’s lungs as he put a hand over his face, shoulders quivering. He nodded. 

John scooted closer to Arthur and pressed their sides together. “It wasn’t right either, how he tried to pitch us against each other.” He frowned and shook his head, hand squeezing Hosea’s tighter like he was trying to draw strength from it. “I don’t care anymore about comparing myself to you. I love you like a brother. I have my own family now, a son. I’d be proud if he grew up with a heart like yours.”

Arthur wheezed, “You sappy sunnuvabitch,” earning him a cuff over the head by John, and Arthur quickly cuffed him back. Hosea smiled at the sight.

Susan had been staring off into the distance for a while, and finally huffed, drawing herself up to look at them. “I never liked the way Dutch treated me, and I ignored the way he treated Molly because I thought the woman was a weak floozy and a bitch, but… Recently he started leering at Mary-Beth in a way that made my stomach churn. And I can’t believe it’s taken me this long to put together that that… wasn’t _right_.” She frowned at herself. “Nor the way he treated you boys, or any of the other kids. I’ve always staked my reputation on being loyal, prided myself on it, but… Is there anything I could have done differently?”

Hosea side-eyed her, seeing an opening. “You could stop _hitting folk_ , for one. Especially the young ones.”

John nodded, squeezing Hosea’s hand again. None of the four missed how John hovered protectively between Miss Grimshaw and Jack whenever Jack threw a tantrum.

Susan looked to Arthur, and Arthur refused to look at her. She twisted her mouth into a frown and asked, “Whatever happened to ‘spare the rod, spoil the child’?”

Hosea turned to glare at her. “That went out the window when they all started avoiding you whenever they had any problems to come to _me_ instead. _I’ve_ practically been all these children’s mother for _years!_ Hell, Susan, they went to _Dutch_ for comfort before they sought you out.”

Susan blanched.

Hosea shook his head, vision swimming with the faces of Arthur and John and Tilly, thirteen years younger. His heart twisted in on itself in shame, remembering he and Bessie riding away from the gang for what he thought was the last time, leaving behind those children - _his children_ \- to wave after them, flanked by Susan and Dutch, the latter of whom had kept possessive hands on Arthur’s and Tilly’s shoulders the whole time. 

He and Bessie only managed to stomach it because Annabelle had been there, and were able to witness how efficiently she managed to keep the worst parts of Dutch under heel. She was also good with the kids and loved them dearly. She did, however, also count as a serial killer before Hosea brought her to the gang, and her and Dutch’s soaring narcissisms fed off of each other and often increased both their mania. Annabelle had been a stop-gap against Dutch having a full-blown mental breakdown at Hosea leaving their lives, and was by no means a responsible person to leave children with. The dirty truth of it was that Hosea had abandoned them to two manic revolutionaries and a woman who thought beating a child down verbally and physically was the best form of discipline.

He clenched his fists and gritted his teeth. “I should have grabbed you two boys and Tilly and ran when I had the chance.”

John frowned at him. “Dutch would've chased you down.”

“Didn’t matter. Still should have done it.”

Arthur reached out and grasped Hosea’s arm. “You and I both know that I never woulda left Dutch back then.”

Susan worried at the hem of her dress. "Dutch and Annabelle were the only ones of us who could get Tilly to sleep on her bad nights."

John sighed and looked down. “And I woulda just ran back to him if you and Bessie took me to live on some farm. Besides, I…” He smiled. “I never woulda met Abigail.”

Arthur slowly relaxed, a timid smile of his own gracing his face. “And that was also before we met Karen, and Javier, Jenny, Lenny, Sean, Mary-Beth, Sadie-” his voice stuttered for a second “-Charles…”

Susan reached over and grasped Hosea’s arm, and Hosea couldn’t find it in himself to pull away from the woman. Instead, his eyes crinkled at the memory of all their family members that they grew to love, and love fiercely. “You’re… you’re right.” He hunched in on himself. “I can’t bring myself to regret any of it. Only… only that I couldn’t bring out the good in Dutch more.”

Susan tssked. “You were that man’s Atlas. Part of the reason I didn’t catch on during… during your bad year, was that that man always put his entire life in your hands and expected you to do most of the labor, and I was grateful for it, because he was always… _strange_.”

“Crazy,” John stated, flat. Arthur nodded.

Susan glanced at the two before looking back at Hosea. “And you made him less crazy, which was something none of us were able to do. And so I ignored most things he did to you because it was just… easier.”

Arthur opened his mouth and started saying, “It shouldn’t have just been all you, I shoulda tried h-”

“ _Don’t you start_ ,” Hosea interrupted sharply. “ _Dutch_ should have tried harder. _Dutch_ should have relied on you all more, opened himself up and worked on his _damn self_.”

John let go of his hand to squeeze his knee, fixing him with a stern gaze. “Then don’t _you_ start blaming _your_ self. If it ain’t on us, it ain’t on you.”

Hosea looked into the resolute eyes of Arthur and John and felt a warm rush of love flood the painful hollow in his chest. He blinked away the wetness in his eyes and asked, “What the hell did I ever do to deserve you two boys?”

Arthur and John grinned and shuffled forward to pull him into a hug, which he fiercely returned, crushing his sons to his chest. After a long moment, John motioned at Susan. “Miss Grimshaw, get in here.” She quickly folded herself around them, sniffling.

The four of them stayed like that for a long while, relishing in each other’s warmth and love, before finally easing back down away from each other, still nestled in a close circle.

John looked over at the half-buried grave and sighed. “I want to just… hate him, for what he did to all of us. Curse his name and leave and never think of him again. But it still… losing him _hurts_ , and I hate it, and I don’t understand _why_.”

Hosea took a deep, steadying breath. “Hang on.” With a grunt, he stood up and walked to Silver Dollar’s saddle-bag, reaching in and pulling out the letter. Holding it tenderly in his hands, he made his way back to his little family and handed it to John, easing himself back down onto the ground.

John took it and opened it, his eyes widening then narrowing as he recognized Dutch’s handwriting. His eyes slowly and methodically worked their way through the words, and a slow carousel of emotions danced across his face - confusion, anger, shock, sadness, anger again, then something unreadable. 

John blinked back tears and handed the letter to Arthur, who anxiously began reading it, expression crumbling more and more the further he read, before he stopped near the bottom to close his eyes and breathe. 

As Arthur wordlessly passed the letter to Susan’s eager hands, John hugged a knee to his chest and shook himself out of his thoughts, only managing a rough, “ _Why…_ ”

Hosea took a deep breath and folded his hands in his lap. “I’m going to tell you all something Dutch made me swear never to tell another living soul.” Arthur and John looked at him warily as Susan skimmed through the letter. “Dutch comes from a long line of bad blood. Something on his mother’s side of the family that makes them not quite right in the head. He had an aunt who started a cult, an uncle who tried to assassinate the president, his grandmother drowned her fourth child in the tub and his grandfather drank a quart of lye.”

Arthur blinked. “ _Jesus…_ ”

John huffed. “Is that supposed to change anything…?”

Hosea shook his head. “No. It’s not. But it is supposed to give you context about Dutch. He wasn’t a sound man, never was. I think we’ve established he was never really a good man, either. But he also wasn’t an evil one.” He eased out a shaky, exhausted breath. “It’s okay to never forgive him. It’s also okay to hate him - I sure as shit do. But I also love him. And I know… that those two things are allowed to exist at the same time. They don’t have to cancel each other out. We all deserve to accept and voice how he hurt us and everyone else, but that doesn’t have to come at the cost of cutting out all the good memories we have of him.” He reached out and took his boys’ hands again. “He’s gone now. We’re away from him. In a way… he let us go, the only way he knew how.”

A quiet sob escaped John’s throat before he silently broke down, nodding. Hosea leaned forward and pressed a kiss to the top of his head, then to Arthur’s, before clambering back up onto his feet to grab a shovel and continue burying Dutch.

Susan wiped at her face as Arthur rubbed slow and steady circles into John’s back as the man finally, finally allowed himself to grieve. 

Arthur swallowed, holding back tears of his own as he ducked his head down to try and meet John’s eyes, offering a wobbly smile. “D’you… Do you remember when you asked Dutch if he could speak Dutch? When you were ‘bout thirteen?”

A snort escaped John’s nose. “Yeah… and he just looked at me and went ‘ _Hoitcha doitcha doo_ -” a giggle ripped its way out of his throat before he could finish, doubling over in laughter and tears as Arthur similarly dissolved into giggles. Susan was fondly rolling her eyes and smirking.

“And do you-” John gasped for breath “-do you remember that one winter when you and I kept complaining about not having Christmas presents, so he broke into a mansion and stole their presents in a big sack?”

“And it turned out to be the _mayor’s mansion?_ ”

“Whose son-in-law was the _sheriff?!_ ”

Hosea made a dramatic groan at the memory, causing the two boys to laugh harder and fall over on their backs.

Arthur slapped John’s chest and wheezed, “ _And he actually put coal in their stockings!_ ”

Susan tssked and massaged her temples at the memory. “You boys think that was funny? We had to flee the state for that stunt!”

Hosea smirked. “And if I remember right, didn’t those presents end up being meant for six little girls?”

John smiled and sat up, climbing to his feet to grab the second shovel, sniffling. “I liked giving them away to that orphanage in Iowa, at least.”

Arthur let a cloying cough creep out of his lungs and covered it with his sleeve. He ignored Hosea and John’s concerned glances to say, “You know, there was this time after a job at Clemen’s Point, when we were pretendin’ to be deputies… Dutch asked me to race back to camp with him. He had that old twinkle in his eye, and Killer ran out of steam right on the forest path leading to camp, and The Count beat him by a nose. Dutch crooned like a rooster.” He fondly shook his head and smiled. “It was nice seeing him like that.”

Hosea grinned at Arthur. “Our little fishing trip was the happiest I’ve been in years.”

John scoffed. “Y’all went fishing without me?”

Arthur smacked his leg. “We went on a boat out in the middle of the lake.”

Everyone laughed when John paled. Hosea ruffled his hair and said, “You, me, and Arthur will have to go fishing sometime soon.”

Susan stood up and dusted off her dress, a sly smile playing on her lips. “I have one of my favorite memories of him. August of 1885, the year John first joined us. We went to the Illinois State Fair and Dutch blew _thirty dollars_ on a carnival game trying to win John a wooden horse.”

Hosea cackled. “He spent five-and-a-half hours grinding away at that thing! It was cute.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and stood up. “Only ‘cause you went back and stole all the guy’s money.”

John’s eyes had softened at the memory, and he looked at Hosea with a smirk. “Can you do the impression?”

Hosea passed his shovel to Arthur and moved away to puff his chest up and flex his biceps. “SoN, I will wIN yOu thaT LIttle hORse if it’s the lAst thing I dO! I will nOt be defEAted by some cARnie’s tRICKS! There’s a sEcret to it, WATCH!” He mimed throwing a ring and warped his face into grandiose rage. “wHAT.”

Arthur, John, and Susan howled with laughter, and Hosea swore he could hear the faint sound of Dutch’s laughter joining in.

It wasn’t long until Arthur and John got the hole filled in the rest of the way and pat down with Hosea and Susan working together to get the grave marker properly fixed into the ground. The four of them stepped back and away to admire their work, taking in Dutch’s grave overlooking the ridge and rolling plains below.

Hosea slowly raised his arms to wrap around Arthur and John’s shoulders on either side of him. “Thank you, boys, for being with me for this.”

Arthur and John wrapped their arms around the small of his back. John scuffed his boot against Hosea’s and quietly said, “I think we both needed this as much as you did. This… really helped. A lot.”

Arthur let out a slow breath and nodded. “The image of him all shot up in that street has been haunting me every waking moment, but now I have _this_ in my head… And it feels like… it feels like healing.”

Arthur pulled Miss Grimshaw in closer on his other side, and she smiled sadly, wrapping her arm around Arthur’s hips. “I think I’m going to try and be… a bit less… physical, once we get back home. And more observant. This has all given me a lot to think about.” Hosea shot her an appreciative look.

They stood in silence in front of Dutch’s grave for several long minutes, each mulling over their own personal thoughts to the man, before Hosea spoke up. “I reckon he’d appreciate a song before we leave him.”

Susan wiped a tear from her eye. “That sounds lovely.”

Arthur glanced at him. “What song you thinkin’?”

Hosea pondered for a long moment. “Jesse James was one of his absolute favorites, and I find it terribly appropriate as well.” 

The other three made fond noises of affirmation. John smiled at Hosea and asked, “Would you like to lead us, old man?”

Hosea gave a soft, fond look at each of them before turning his gaze to Dutch’s grave. He cleared his throat, then sang, “ _Jesse James was a lad who killed many a man, He robbed the Glendale train; He stole from the rich and he gave to the poor, He’d a hand and a heart and a brain._ ”

Arthur, John, and Susan joined him in the chorus:

_Poor Jesse had a wife to mourn for his life,_   
_Three children, they were brave;_   
_But that dirty little coward that shot Mr. Howard_   
_Has laid poor Jesse in his grave._

Hosea and Susan then sang as Arthur hummed, “ _Jesse was a man, a friend to the poor, He never would see a man suffer pain; And with his brother Frank he robbed the Chicago bank, And stopped the Glendale train._ ”

_Poor Jesse had a wife to mourn for his life,_   
_Three children, they were brave;_   
_But that dirty little coward that shot Mr. Howard_   
_Has laid poor Jesse in his grave._

Arthur joined in slightly more confidently with Susan and Hosea as they sang, “ _It was his brother Frank that robbed the Gellatin bank, And carried the money from the town; It was in this very place that they had a little race, For they shot Captain Sheets to the ground._ ”

_Poor Jesse had a wife to mourn for his life,_   
_Three children, they were brave;_   
_But that dirty little coward that shot Mr. Howard_   
_Has laid poor Jesse in his grave._

John did his best to keep up with them as all four of them sang:

_They went to the crossing not very far from there,_   
_And there they did the same;_   
_With the agent on his knees, he delivered up the keys_   
_To the outlaws, Frank and Jesse James._

_Poor Jesse had a wife to mourn for his life,_   
_Three children, they were brave;_   
_But that dirty little coward that shot Mr. Howard_   
_Has laid poor Jesse in his grave._

_It was on Saturday night, Jesse was at home_   
_Talking with his family brave,_   
_Robert Ford came along like a thief in the night_   
_And laid poor Jesse in his grave._

_Poor Jesse had a wife to mourn for his life,_   
_Three children, they were brave;_   
_But that dirty little coward that shot Mr. Howard_   
_Has laid poor Jesse in his grave._

The four of them huddled even closer together, tears slipping down all of their cheeks as silence settled around them once more.

After a long minute, Arthur let go of them and started walking towards The Count, where he was standing forlorn and dejected beside the grave, cooing at him and offering a carrot. John yawned and mused, “We best get going if we want to make it back to the Homestead before sundown.” He turned towards the horses and then looked back at Arthur and Hosea as Susan continued on. “Do you two want to ride back with us, or would you like to stay behind?”

Arthur eased a soothing hand up and down The Count’s face. “I’m gonna take The Count to the stable near Dewberry Creek, get him bathed and fed and watered, make sure all his sores get treated and his hooves get looked at. I wanna stay the night with him, too.”

Hosea grinned. “You always had a gift with horses. Who knows, maybe The Count will imprint on you next?” Arthur scoffed. Grin sagging, he turned back to John and Susan. “I’ll ride back with you, but would you mind giving me one last moment?”

John nodded and walked away towards Susan and their horses in the distance. Arthur gently and pleadingly coaxed The Count away from Dutch’s grave, praising him for each hesitant step towards Killer, where he gently wrapped his lasso around his neck and tightened it before swinging up onto Killer and riding off.

When it was just Hosea and Dutch, he turned towards the grave and knelt down in front of it, laying a gentle hand on the wood. He pressed his forehead down into the soil and smiled a bittersweet smile, his eyes shining.

“We did it,” he said softly, love powering the words so much they trembled slightly. “And I’m going to finish it. I _promise_.”

He stood up, wiped the last tear from his cheek, and then walked towards where John and Susan were mounted up with a shining smile.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hold onto your butts because I have Emotions About Dutch^TM and This Goddamn Cowboy Game below:
> 
> So, just as I predicted, Finals Week resulted in a massive burnout. My writing abilities may as well have been billowing huge plumes of black smoke and sparking. So, I sat down, picked up my PS4 controller, and played through American Venom. And... fuck.
> 
> My heart shattered right alongside John's seeing Dutch again, his voice already closer to the strange, quiet, breathy, wispy way he spoke in RDR1 than his old booming warble. Then, "I ain't got much to say no more," Dutch avenged Arthur, and refused to kill John. My heart shattered impossibly more when John breathed "Thank you! I- I-" and moved towards Dutch and reached out for him. It instantly took me to RDR1, where Dutch had become a rapist and mass-murderer of innocents like Jake Adler, Eliza, and Isaac - and John _still_ defended him until he was breathless, kept telling snippets of good memories with him, told Edgar Ross essentially "If I had it my way, I'd kill you a hundred times over before I'd ever kill Dutch." Holstered his gun when Dutch dropped his and begged him to be taken in alive.
> 
> John is so clearly a survivor of an abusive parent.
> 
> People don't just randomly become rapists and murderers. There's always some kind of foundation. That foundation for Dutch was a long pattern of being psychologically and emotionally abusive, and it existed far before Hosea's death. Rereading Arthur's journal and the way he wrote about him, it became clear to me that Dutch was abusive well before Blackwater. It's also rather clear, through a multitude of things, that Dutch suffered from some kind of severe mental illness, probably ever since he was a young man - and I've been trying to figure out _what_ exactly it is ever since I first played through Colter.
> 
> Through all my knowledge from education and personal experience, both my own and that of my loved ones, who all of us suffer from severe mental illness, I've come to the conclusion that Dutch suffers from a truly unholy trifecta of Borderline Personality Disorder, Bipolar 1, and Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder (Edit: I initially misdiagnosed Dutch's BPD as Narcissistic Personality Disorder). To be clear, _none_ of these make ANYONE more likely to rape or murder or abuse. Those things are _choices_ that people make, mentally ill or not. That said, I think it's also important to recognize that Dutch had no access to medication, and the only mental healthcare during his time were asylums, which gave the Spanish Inquisition a run for their money. For this man to have made it to the age of 45, holding and maintaining the relationships he did with No Treatment, he must have been making a _massive **Effort**_. It clearly wasn't a perfect effort, 'cause he was still a gross abusive dumbass, but the fact that he had the capacity to try? Is probably the one main reason why Hosea, Arthur, and John love him and continue to love him unconditionally to the end of their days, even far after he stops trying at all. And I genuinely believe that Dutch, even after he stopped trying, loved them right back, all the way until he shattered his body on some rocks.
> 
> If Hosea reminds me of my Papa, Dutch reminds me of my Dad. It took me years to figure out that I was... _allowed,_ to love my Dad. I learned of his worst abuses far after he died, and I became convinced that he was an inhuman monster, that any happy memory I had of him was wrong and that I was a bad person if I ever felt anything close to warmth towards him. When I told my therapist this, I'll never forget how sad she looked. She helped me realize that I can be glad to be away from someone, and never want them in my life again, and still love them. That denying myself my love for my Dad and poisoning the happy memories I had of him wasn't doing anything but needlessly hurting myself. He wasn't a monster, he was a man. He was... my Dad.
> 
> If Dutch van der Linde is a cautionary tale about failed recovery, then I want to work with every fibre of my being to make _this story_ a success story of Hosea Matthews's and Arthur Morgan's. I hate and despise the narrative that the world is unforgiving, and that those who seek recovery and redemption end up dying alone and afraid and in pain. Fuck that. Arthur committed atrocities, and in this story Hosea's past will be full of some fucked up shit as well, but I believe in the power of love and kindness. I believe in redemption and happy endings. 
> 
> I believe in the love of a father for his son.
> 
>  **1\. Dutch van der Linde's Last Stand**  
>  **2\. Escape from Saint Denis**  
>  **3\. Escape from Lemoyne**  
>  **4\. The Letter**  
>  **5\. Reunions**  
>  **6\. Unfinished Business**  
>  7\. I Know You


	7. I Know You

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warning** for **past animal abuse, past emotional/psychological abuse, near drowning, hallucinations/paranoia, past child sexual abuse, discussions of rape, referenced genocide, vague(?) gore, and graphic amputation.** I swear to God this is me trying to write fluff.
> 
> Some quick notes: you may have noticed that the number of chapters has been bumped from 13 to 14. That's because this chapter had become so _stupidly huge_ that I had to cut it at its halfway point, because otherwise this one chapter would've been over 40,000 words, and just... no. Nope. I refuse. The reason for these two chapters' behemoth sizes is because I'm trying to make sure Hosea has a one-on-one scene with each member of the gang before... chapter 9... and this family is BIG, so I've tried rationing things to one scene per person.
> 
> This brings me to Bill Williamson. He has a second scene with Hosea here, because quite frankly I think he desperately needs one if he's going to be redeemed enough to deserve a happy ending with the others. He becomes a rapist and mass-murderer that equals if not surpasses Dutch in RDR1, and even in the RDR2 timeline, _in-game,_ he mocks Arthur for being raped. And if Bill gets a happy ending and Dutch doesn't? I feel a need to justify that. So I sat down and picked apart Bill's brain, and it's clear to me that he has PTSD and some form of intellectual disability, and that he would've molded himself after whatever Dutch was becoming due to his dependence on the man. In this timeline, he's transplanted that dependence on Hosea, who also gets to act as a Queer Elder to him for some desperately needed intervention against the _toxic_ ideas of queerness and masculinity this man carries. Their conversation is very heavy, so when Bill shows up, please take care.
> 
> ...I then of course got to thinking about how the only queer characters in RDR canon are Bill, possibly a colonel in RDR1 who's also implied to be a rapist and pedophile, and Arthur's rapist. Then I got to thinking about how Arthur can get _graphically raped on screen,_ and the game treats it as a joke, with no one acknowledging it or comforting Arthur outside of Bill's mocking comment. So then, as a queer man and male survivor myself, I went _**apeshit,**_ and so now all implied queer relationships in this fic are going to be endgame and on-the-nose. I've also decided that the Arthur of this fic will have also, unfortunately, encountered that man in the swamp. This was a heavy decision to make, considering that encounter is optional, but I want Arthur to be able to recover from that in this timeline - for his sake, for my sake, and every other survivors' sake. (He is currently deep in the denial and repression phase of processing here, and will only start actively processing it when we reach Chapter VI - I don't want anyone walking on eggshells waiting for it to come up.)
> 
> On a much lighter note, and because quite frankly I feel guilty for all this angst and making so many folk cry... there may be no singing in this chapter, but I did make an entire Spotify playlist of Soft Hopeful Pro-Recovery Music to accompany these next couple chapters [for any who want to listen](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/4kptjyOPD9hnQTGkWVb5WM?si=ILb2ixVFRDqxHGOeWbrnXg).

Hosea laid in the grass beside Bessie’s grave and stared up at the sky, watching the clouds roll by in various shapes and textures. One of his hands was laid out beside him and over her, curling into the grass like how he used to tangle his fingers with hers. He let out a slow exhale through his nose and closed his eyes, enjoying the soft caress of the breeze and the light of the sun warming and soothing his joints.

It was the day after they’d buried Dutch, and Hosea still felt heavy with sadness - there was never a moment he didn’t - but there was also a new warmth in his center, tingling along his skin like the sensation of a cat purring over one’s heart. Hosea had lost any hope of the future being bright or happy ever since Bessie slipped away in his arms - Dutch managed to give him a few temporary sparks like a rock striking against flint, but had never managed to bring back the steady gentle flame he had kindled when they first met - until now. Everything was so… _different_ , now. With the deaths of Bessie and Dutch, a significant piece of Hosea had died with them, but rather than shriveling up and passing away from a broken heart as he’d assumed he would, there was something new growing there, small and fragile and brittle, but still there. Hosea had no idea what it was, but a small smile tugged at his lips at the thought of one day being able to find out.

A distant frustrated cry followed by mocking banter and laughter sounded from the camp behind him where everyone was scrambled amongst each other trying to learn how to sew, knit, build a fire, or use a gun in ragtag little groups. A warm chuckle shook through Hosea’s chest and he opened his eyes again.

“Oh, Bessie,” he sighed. “I wish you could see these fools. It’s hilarious.” With a grunt of effort, he sat up and resituated himself, turning to look at her grave and the grave of their baby, absolutely drowned in bundles and bouquets of flowers that the others had accumulated since Hosea moved them in. His eyes twinkled at the sight. “They’re a bunch of sweethearts, aren’t they?” he murmured, fingers stroking through the petals. “They would have loved to meet you. Our little gang has grown so much since our time… You would’ve charmed your way into each and every one of their hearts just like you did Dutch and Susan and the boys.” He slowly blinked, content. “We’re making a go of it, you know. All of us. A cattle ranch in Alberta, Canada - that’s the goal now. No more violence, no more hurtin’ folk. Instead, we’ll be puttin’ steaks on folks’ tables!”

He chuckled and shook his head, his heart twinging as he sagged. “I’ve never forgotten your last words to me,” he said quietly. “‘No regrets.’ I used to play them on repeat to hurt myself. Tore myself apart trying to follow them. Only I was a damned fool. It took the boys yesterday to finally click them into place.” He looked beyond her grave to their homestead and watched everyone scurry and meander around. “All this pain and loss… One way or another, it’s given us this chance. And I must confess, I’m rather liking the thought of spending the rest of my days with these buffoons.” He looked back at Bessie’s grave and leaned forward until his forehead was gently pressed against it, closing his eyes. “Thank you for believing in me, my love,” he whispered. “I’m trying my best to become the man you saw in me.”

The sound of five separate sets of hoofbeats had him snapping his eyes over to where John was standing guarding the path, where he quickly shouted “Who’s there?!”

“Arthur, you dumbass!” came Arthur’s cheeky reply, right before he rode past the treeline on Killer with The Count. And three other horses.

A laugh shook itself loose from Hosea’s chest, and he shared a fond glance with Bessie’s grave before heaving himself up onto his feet, calling out to Arthur, “You brought the whole menagerie, did you?”

Arthur flashed him a grin as he dismounted and promptly got fondly swarmed by Tess, Senua, and Jude, the three mares all nosing at his pockets. Hosea made his way over to help the poor boy wrangle the small herd with a bemused grin.

Arthur, wherever they had roamed in the past twenty years, had always been soft towards the horses they encountered. He’d befriended nearly every horse Dutch and Hosea had orphaned in their first years that didn’t bolt, and for two years the boy went through a cycle of bringing an extra horse to camp that they couldn’t care for, having to sell his existing one at Dutch and Hosea’s insistence, then bringing home a new one, ad nauseum. The day of Arthur’s seventeenth birthday, Dutch and Hosea snuck away to an auction and blew a thousand dollars on a raven black Ardennes in the desperate hope of getting Arthur to _stop_. 

He still remembered the soft, twinkly-eyed look he’d shared with Dutch when Arthur’s eyes had gone wide as saucers and his mouth dropped open. The boy had flapped his hands - one of the precious few times Hosea saw him do it before Dutch gently coaxed him into stopping altogether - and ran up to hold her snout, asking repeatedly if she was really his, and finally cooed _Boadicea_ against her nose after being assured, yes, she was really his about thirty times. All three of them had been fond of the way Arthur towered above Hosea and Dutch on Silver Dollar and Empress when they rode out together. After Dutch rescued The Count from his abusive rider six years later, Dutch was even lower to the ground on The Count’s slight frame, and Arthur took every chance he could to rib the man from atop his titan of a mare. Dutch always tolerated the jabs, however, because Arthur did indeed stop bringing horses back to camp and begging them to let him keep them. Instead, he’d courteously taken them away to the nearest reputable stable to promptly sell them and ensure they went to a new good home. 

Boadicea had stolen his heart, and the boy rode her exclusively and faithfully until the bitter end. After her death, Arthur had started up his cycling pattern again. Tess had come second after Killer when Arthur couldn’t bear to leave the chestnut blanket Appaloosa in the middle of an intersection after he and Charles had killed her buffalo mercenary owner. The mare kicked Arthur in the stomach three times when he tried to get close to her and damn near killed him, but for some reason Arthur found that endearing. She had a mean and violent streak the like of which rivaled The Count’s, and after she won a race against a man in West Elizabeth’s Big Valley she crushed the man’s ribcage after he slapped his white roan Nokota across the face for losing. That shivery and antsy Nokota became Senua. 

As for Jude, the black rabicano Tennessee Walker was rescued from the Murfree Brood, and promptly became Arthur’s precious baby. Arthur and Kieran had fussed at her scabbed and scraped legs, lacerations, flayed skin, burn wounds, saddle sores, and matted mane and tail for days on end. The horse moved with the mark of chronic pain, but Arthur’s careful love and attention saw her wounds turn to scars and her remaining coat show hints of a healthy sheen. Her mohawk mane and neat short tail also made her look shabbily endearing.

It wasn’t long afterwards that Arthur went with Dutch and Micah to that damned parlay, of course. After surviving the ordeal, Arthur had clung to Killer like a security blanket and stopped riding any other horse, and his three mares got to live it up nice and easy in the stables. Except for now, apparently.

Hosea opened the gate and then helped Arthur usher the four horses into the pasture before shutting it behind them. The two men watched as Tess ran off to beat up Brown Jack, Senua sidled up to Maggie to touch noses, and The Count - now shiningly clean with his wounds well-tended to - laid down in the grass to stare blankly at nothing while Jude grazed placidly beside him.

“Planning on bringing your girls to Canada with us?” Hosea smirked and jabbed Arthur’s side with his elbow.

Arthur grinned back at him. “Well a ranch needs some work horses, ain’t it? I can’t abandon these fine fillies when they’re needed for work. ‘Sides, I thought maybe some of the folk in need of their own horses might like to bond with ‘em.”

Hosea nodded his approval. “Good thinking. I was actually hoping you’d take the lead in teaching the less horse-savvy folk how to ride, and maybe increase folk’s horsemanship skills in general. There’s a non-zero chance we might have to abandon the wagons.”

Arthur’s grin warmed into a smile. “...You think we could arrange a trail ride? With the whole gang?”

Hosea’s smile grew to reflect Arthur’s as they turned to look at each other. “That’s exactly the kind of fun folk need. I’ll see about it.” He reached over and nimbly tucked his hand under Arthur’s hat to ruffle his hair, making Arthur scoff and duck away, batting at him. He retracted his hand with a laugh and looked up at the sun’s low position in the sky. “It’s nearing evening… What say you, me, and John have that fishing trip we talked about?” He spied Lenny walking past with a bag of grain towards Pearson’s wagon. “And what do you say to bringing Lenny with us?”

Arthur beamed. “ _Hell_ yes!”

Hosea chuckled at Arthur’s enthusiasm and whistled for Silver Dollar. The stallion came happily trotting up to him from where he’d been grooming The Count, and Hosea greeted him with an oatcake before clicking at him to exit the pasture. With his horse at hand, Hosea turned to Arthur and asked, “Would you like to invite Lenny while I invite John?”

“Sure,” Arthur grinned, taking Killer’s reins.

Hosea tipped his hat at the boy and walked Silver Dollar to the hitching post by the barn, then called over to John from where he was standing guard, “John, mount up! We’re goin’ fishing!”

John turned around to look at him and a bright smile appeared on his face. He shouldered his rifle and quickly walked towards the pasture. Hosea turned and scanned the camp until he saw Bill furiously - and poorly - working a needle and thread through a pair of ripped pants under the cast-iron guidance of Miss Grimshaw. “Bill! Mind taking up guard duty?” he called out.

Bill didn’t even look at him before he threw the pants and needle on the ground and sprinted away from Miss Grimshaw to the camp armory, prompting Susan to give Hosea a dirty look. Hosea shrugged.

Once Silver Dollar, Old Boy, and Maggie were all tacked up, the four men mounted up and trotted down the path leading to the road, enjoying the cool breeze and the bird songs before cutting east into the forest towards O’Creighs Run.

Lenny resituated his hat on his head and smiled at the three of them. “Thank y’all for inviting me on this fishing trip. I kinda feel like I’m intruding, if I’m honest.”

Hosea waved him off. “Nonsense.”

“I just know… well, you three are…”

Arthur snorted. “Old.”

“No,” Lenny chuckled, “not _that_. But… y’all are close.” Arthur opened his mouth and Lenny swiftly corrected, “In a family way, I mean. I like to think we’re close! But y’all ain’t my dad or my brothers.”

John snorted. “And we’re not a dad and his sons, so I still ain’t seeing an issue.”

Something in Hosea’s chest ached at the comment, but Hosea simply wrinkled a brow in confusion at the feeling and shoved it away.

“Not by blood, maybe,” Lenny commented quietly.

“Lenny,” Arthur sighed, “I love ya, but quit actin’ dumb. You’ve always been part of this family. There’s no… barriers or tiers or whatever the shit. So shut up and fish with some fellers that care about you.”

Hosea glanced back and caught the twinkle in Lenny’s eyes as he smiled at Arthur, who returned it, warmly. Hosea turned his head to look at John and saw a sullen expression, which he frantically schooled away into a fake smile when he caught Hosea looking.

Dutch brought Lenny into the gang the same year John ran away late into Abigail’s pregnancy. When he came back, Dutch had warmly welcomed him with a hug and the title of “son,” but Hosea spent months glaring at him and walking away to Abigail and her young infant every time John tried to approach him. Hosea remained frigid towards him for roughly a year - Arthur, even longer, harboring resentment all the way to Clemen’s Point. Both of them called him “Marston,” the loss of both their babies a raw pit in their chest, and Hosea figured they were both projecting onto John. By the time Hosea tried to reconnect with the boy he’d raised, he knew that something had broken between them - not completely, not even majorly, but there was a rough fracture in the bond they shared, jagged and scarred.

Dutch went out of his way to check in with and talk to John while Hosea and Arthur had shut him out, but his motives for doing so were infinitely more cruel. Dutch had used every weapon in his personal arsenal to erode John down like a stream of water over stone - purposefully giving jobs and tasks to Arthur and Lenny that normally would have gone to John, and when John would volunteer for a task, Dutch would cock an eyebrow at him, turn to the gang, and ask if he was going to use it an excuse to run away again - only half-joking. The gang always laughed, and John always shrunk into himself as Dutch inevitably paraded past with Arthur or Lenny or even Bill in tow. And, of course, there were the comments. The ‘ _You should be more like Arthur_ ’s and ‘ _You could learn some things from Lenny_ ’s, always covered with a sharp-toothed smile. 

Even their fishing trip in Clemen’s Point, Hosea realized, was Dutch pulling the same behavior. He looked at their current group, now, and realized John was riding between two weapons used to hurt him and behind a man who’d abandoned him. 

Twice.

Hosea felt very tired.

They emerged from the treeline onto the trail and began cantering their way around O’Creighs Run. In only a few minutes, they were at their destination.

“Hamish!” Hosea called out, walking Silver Dollar to the front of the man’s house where Buell was hitched.

After a few seconds, the front door creaked open and Hamish poked his head out, straightening up and beaming a smile at the sight of his friend. “Hosea! You look well!” He looked over at the boys. “And you brought visitors! Wait, is that…” he squinted “...Arthur? That you?!”

“Hamish!” Arthur greeted with a hearty laugh, dismounting to walk over and grasp Hamish’s hand in a firm shake.

Hosea raised his brow and chuckled as he dismounted Silver Dollar, John and Lenny following suit behind him. “You two know each other?”

Arthur turned to face him and gestured between the two old men. “ _Y’all_ know each other?!”

Hamish placed a firm hand on Arthur’s shoulder. “Ol’ Arthur here came across me after Buell had thrown me off and stole my damn leg. Got the infernal, wooden thing back for me. And the leg.” All the men laughed and Buell snorted.

“And this fine gentleman,” Hosea explained once the laughter had died down, “was Bessie and I’s favorite neighbor!”

“I was his only neighbor!” Hamish barked, slugging Hosea in the shoulder, and the two men laughed again and embraced. He patted Hosea on the back and turned away to look at the boys. “I had no idea that Arthur was _your_ Arthur! Now which one’s John?!”

John blinked and held up his hand.

Hamish beamed. “ _John!_ Come here boy, let me take a look at you!” Bewildered, John did so and approached close enough for Hamish to clap him on the shoulders. “What a strapping young lad! You know, Hosea wouldn’t stop talking about you when we were out together. Nice to meet ya!”

An almost shy smile graced John’s face, and he looked at Hamish then Hosea in surprise. 

“And who’s this?” Hamish asked, gesturing at Lenny.

Lenny took off his hat and approached Hamish with an outstretched hand and a warm smile. “Lenny Summers.” Hamish shook his hand heartily, and Hosea grinned at how good of a lawyer or politician the boy would make.

Hamish looked over his shoulder at Hosea and pat Lenny on the back. “Is this another boy you picked up?”

Hosea laughed and went to retrieve his fishing pole from Silver Dollar’s saddle-bag. “He is indeed another boy I am adding to my collection.”

“How many boys you got?”

Hosea did the math for a few moments. “Five? Six?”

“That’s a lot of boys!”

“You haven’t even heard of the girls yet!”

All the men laughed again as they grabbed their fishing poles. Lenny looked between Hosea and Hamish and asked, “We fishing here with your friend?”

Hosea nodded and cocked a hip. “There’s never such thing as a boring fishing trip with Hamish.”

“Damn right,” Hamish gruffed, walking up to the edge of the lake and shielding his eyes from the sun as he looked out over the water. “You men are just the army I need to go after my archnemesis in this here lake… the great _Tyrant_.”

John sidled up to the edge of the water. “Tyrant?”

Hamish nodded sagely. “Mean as hell northern pike… Eats everything else that spawns around here, its own kind included.”

Lenny joined John’s side. “So is our bait jacks?”

“Hell no. He’s a clever old bastard.” Hamish reached into his satchel and pulled out two colorful, lovingly crafted lures. “I made _these_.”

Hosea knew the look of special lake lures when he saw them. “Well hell, I got a pair like that of my own that I bought off a woman running a fishing shack in Lagras.” He fished around in his own satchel before pulling out two lures that were almost identical, save for differences in the details. 

Hamish scoffed in disgust. “Mine are _hand-made_ , the product of _years_ of labor.”

Hosea fondly rolled his eyes. “What do you think the woman made these with? A steam engine?”

“Your _city boy_ roots are showin’ there, Hosea.” 

The boys made low _ooooo_ s. Hosea narrowed his eyes and put his hands on his hips. “You wanna see who exactly can catch this Tyrant with whose lures?”

Hamish mozied up to Hosea and grinned, wicked. “You’re on for a _competition_ , old friend.” Hosea smirked.

Hamish promptly grabbed Arthur’s jacket. “I’ll start by stealing Arthur here for my team. You can have the other two, ‘cause you’re gonna _need ‘em_.”

Hosea wrapped his arms around John and Lenny’s shoulders from where they were sharing amused giggles with Arthur. “ _Oh_ , how you hamper yourself, old friend. Arthur’s the worst fisherman here.”

“Hey!” Arthur whined, and he sounded so young, it made Hosea’s heart stutter.

“Not with my hands on him,” Hamish gruffed, and he clapped Arthur’s shoulders before steering him towards a canoe further along the edge of the lake. “You three can take my boat on the dock there, that oughta give you some even more help!”

“Let’s go destroy them, boys,” Hosea said lowly with a chuckle, squeezing John and Lenny’s shoulders before leading them to the boat.

When all the men were in their respective craft, Hamish directed them all to a spot further along the lake. Arthur and John rowed to the waters, and once they were situated between the shore and the island and across from each other, they all stood and got out their fishing rods. Hamish and Arthur quickly equipped their lures and cast out, while Hosea handed John his spare lure and turned to Lenny to give his main one.

Lenny raised his brow and blinked. “What you gonna use, Hosea?”

“I’m gonna try my luck with this… fancy river lure…” he mumbled, carefully equipping it. Once he was finished, he, Lenny, and John all cast their reels back and then hurled them out towards the island to join Hamish’s and Arthur’s.

In only a couple minutes, John stiffened and tightened his grip on his fishing rod, planting his feet more firmly in the boat. Hosea looked at him excitedly and asked, “You got something?!”

John nodded quickly, too focused on fighting whatever was on his line and trying to tire it out to form words. Lenny made a victorious noise and thumbed his nose at Arthur and Hamish, who scowled good-naturedly.

Hosea put a supporting hand on John’s back. “Make sure you pull that rod up! Don’t let him pull the line out!”

John nodded quickly again, hauling his fishing pole upwards and gripping white-knuckled at the reel, when suddenly he went stumbling backwards. Hosea quickly caught him and helped him regain his balance, and the man looked in disappointment as the line went completely slack.

“ _Dammit_ ,” John growled, panting for breath as he quickly reeled in his line.

Hosea was just beginning to say “It’s oka-” when John’s line snapped taut, and before he could do anything, John was ripped out of the boat and hurled into the water by the force that tugged on his rod.

Hamish and Lenny laughed, but Hosea and Arthur went pale. In two seconds, Hosea had thrown his rod into the water and shed his boots, coat, satchel, hat and gun belt before launching himself into the lake after him.

The water was a shock of cold that threatened to punch out Hosea’s breath, but he held it, and shook his head before forcing himself to open his eyes and scan the dark, murky water for John. He saw him wildly thrashing and panicking and slowly sinking to the bottom of the lake about twenty feet off. Hosea quickly swam down to him and reached out to grab him, only for John’s hands to latch onto his arms and shove them downwards, scrabbling for purchase on his shoulders, head, back, anything, like he was trying to climb Hosea out of the water. The both of them simply sank.

Hosea patiently pried John’s fingers off of him and maneuvered himself in front of the boy, whose eyes were wild with a primal panic. He grabbed a fistful of John’s hair and practically rammed their foreheads together. _Look at me_ , he thought. John blinked, and did, his wild eyes finally focusing and registering Hosea.

John quit thrashing. Hosea wasted no time in grabbing him and then kicking and treading water back towards the rippling light up above.

Hosea had been completely out of breath for thirty seconds by the time their heads breached the surface, both men desperately gasping for air as Hosea fought to keep their noses and mouths above the water, which was no small feat with John being stiff as a board. Lenny was rowing the boat towards them with all the speed and strength of John Henry. In seconds, he was at their side and reaching out for them. Hosea pushed John up and into Lenny’s hands, bobbing back underneath the water for a few moments from the effort before treading back up, and he saw John’s feet disappear over the edge back into the boat. Lenny was back instantly and grabbed Hosea’s outstretched arms, hauling him up and into the boat in one swift movement. 

Hosea could only focus on John’s desperate wet hacking as he struggled to get the water out of his lungs. Hosea crawled over and wrapped himself around the boy’s back, clasping his fists together in front of him before ramming them into his sternum. John made a wet wretch sound and a glop of water spilled out of his mouth and into the boat, and he was finally able to gasp in sound breaths between his coughing.

Hosea kept an arm around him and pressed himself against his side, using his free hand to press against his chest. He ducked his head to try and spy the boy’s eyes through his long wet curtain of hair. “You okay?” he asked, breathless.

“Yeah,” John choked, then gasped and started shivering. Hosea relaxed and felt his adrenaline start to ebb, spurring shivering of his own. The air was forty-four degrees fahrenheit and getting colder by the minute with the setting sun.

“ _Are they okay?!_ ” came Arthur’s concerned yell.

“Yeah!” Lenny hollered back as he wrapped them both in Hosea’s discarded coat, then hesitated a second before taking off his own coat and bundling them up with it as well. “They should probably be getting back to the homestead, though!”

Arthur’s voice again, “Let’s head back to shore, then!”

Hamish’s voice scoffed. “Aw, they’ll be fine! Hosea’s a tough old bastard, and the boy’s breathin’! They can just rest up in my cabin, the door’s unlocked. Warm up and dry off with my stove and eat some of my food, would ya?”

Hosea peeked up above the rim of the boat to meet Hamish’s eyes. “Thank you, friend! And Arthur, catch that son of a bitch for me and John, won’t you?”

Arthur blinked at him and scrunched his face up with worry, but Hosea just winked back. Arthur let out a heavy breath, shook his head, then nodded. “All right, well… _fine_. I’ll avenge you boys!”

“That’s our fine fisherman!” Hosea called back, sinking back down to John’s side. Lenny took up the oars again to row them back to the dock, and with his back towards them, John silently leaned against Hosea’s chest, tucking his head against Hosea’s collar-bone as he shuddered in deep breaths.

Hosea couldn’t remember a time when John sought physical comfort like that. Certainly not since before he ran away. Even when he was a child, John was never one for physical touch. Surviving what he’d been through at the age of twelve, the boy had night terrors, but if Dutch or Hosea ever reached out to comfort him by touch he'd scratch and claw and bite at their arms before scampering off into Arthur’s tent to curl up in a corner. As he grew, Dutch, Hosea, and Arthur each learned their own language for how to communicate care and comfort - for Dutch, it was literal words of ‘ _I’m here if you need me_ ’ and ‘ _You’re good, you’re safe now’_ ; for Hosea, it was food, sliding off portions from his plate onto John’s or leaving him sweets; for Arthur, it was sitting beside him in silence, sketching in his journal and politely not reacting as the steady whisper of his pencil lulled John into a calm trance.

As they slowly earned the boy's love and trust, John became comfortable with _giving_ comfort. In the year after Bessie died and Hosea was curled up in random places around camp in a drunken stupor, John would sit beside him and press their sides together, just to keep him company. He’d do the same for Arthur, and then ended up doing the same for Abigail. As for Dutch… Dutch had his own touch-averse tendencies, which John sharply picked up on, and so when Dutch got rattled John tried to crack jokes or rile him up. In all that time, still, he never went to them to _receive_ comfort - at least physically. Only Abigail received that privilege in exceptional circumstances.

Hosea looked down at the boy tucked against his chest and felt it as the gift it was.

When Lenny tied the boat back to the dock, John pulled away, and Hosea busied himself shoving his boots back onto his feet and shoving his hat back on. He grabbed his gun belt and satchel, then allowed Lenny to help both of them up and lead them into the cabin. 

Hosea and John sat down heavily next to the wood stove and Hosea quickly pulled his boots off again, peeling off his socks and draping them over the leather to dry. John did the same before rubbing at his arms near the fire, and Lenny busied himself perusing Hamish’s food stock.

“Lenny,” Hosea prompted, straightening up when the boy turned around. “Thank you, son. You saved our lives.”

Lenny scoffed and waved him off. “Naw, I just rowed the boat and helped y’all up.”

John looked up at the boy. “No, really. Thanks.”

“It really wasn’t all that big a dea-”

“ _Lenny_ ,” John ground out, “take a compliment, would ya?” When Lenny frowned, John sighed and ducked his head. “I didn’t mean it like that. I just… Fuck. It’s just so _embarrassing_.”

Lenny quirked an eyebrow and came over to sit between John and Hosea. “A grown man not knowing how to swim strikes me as about as embarrassing as a grown man not knowing how to read. It’s just a case of circumstance, ain’t no shame in it.” He blinked, then tilted his head. “Did Dutch and Hosea really never teach you...?”

Hosea dragged a hand down his face and groaned as John wrinkled his nose and said, “Dutch picked me up over his head and threw me into a lake when I first told him.”

Lenny cringed. “Oh, God.”

Hosea rested his head on his fist. “I had to go jumping in after him when the bubbles stopped.”

A twitchy smirk made its way onto John’s face despite himself as he turned back to Lenny. “Hosea pinned Dutch under the water for a minute afterwards, which I guess makes it worth it.”

Lenny snorted a laugh, then slowly wilted, his gaze falling to the floor as his expression went slack at the mention of Dutch. Hosea started to reach out to comfort him, but his ever-tightening lungs had finally crossed the threshold of their limit, and he desperately tried to suck in a breath only for his lungs to violently spasm with his efforts, unleashing horrifying screeching sounds as air ground through them and then was hurtled out of them, untouched and unabsorbed.

He threw his arm up to cover his mouth and kept fighting to breathe. John and Lenny had jumped up in alarm and were at his sides in seconds, clutching at him and talking, quick and quiet but growing louder with panic by the second, and Hosea couldn’t process a word they were saying behind the shriek of his lungs as they spasmed shut. He felt his face growing warm and tingly and darkness began sneaking into the edges of his vision. He slid out of his chair and collapsed onto the ground, and John and Lenny were screaming at each other now, crashing around Hamish’s house like a pair of bulls looking for anything to help.

The front door opened and a five-foot northern pike was dropped haphazardly on the table, abandoned, as Arthur froze in the doorway at the sight of Hosea pressed flat on the ground and screeching for air against the cold stone. Hamish quickly and purposefully shoved past Arthur and the boys, grabbed something, then bodily dragged Hosea out the front door and onto the ground outside. The mountain wind blew past his face and down his sinuses and throat while Hamish opened up a metal canister in front of his face, a warm herbal aroma following the air down into his lungs. 

A numb, tingling sensation filled his lungs, and slowly, ever-so-slowly, he felt his lungs start to relax, finally processing air as they did so. After about five minutes of Hamish propping him up and helping him breathe in the herbal mixture, he was finally breathing normally with only the ghost of a rasp. Hamish screwed the lid back on the tin and pressed it into Hosea’s hands, patting his back. Hosea sucked in as deep a breath as he could, held it for five seconds, then slowly let it out, repeating the process twice more clambering to his feet. He helped pull Hamish up as well, then pocketed the tin and turned back towards the house-

-to see all three boys crammed in the doorway, looking at him with big doe-eyes.

Hosea laughed. “Well, I ain’t dead _yet!_ ”

Hamish clapped him on the back and joined in his laughter. “Told y’all he was a tough old bastard!”

Arthur shook his head and looked… sad. Lenny scrunched his face up, and John gaped at him.

“Hosea…” John started. “That… was the worst attack you’ve _ever_ had.”

Hosea carefully kept his expression from changing. He didn’t want to tell the boy that it was triggered by the cold plunge he took to save him, nor did he want to tell any of the boys what he knew deep in his bones - that his lungs wouldn’t survive a single Canadian winter. And so, he didn’t let his expression fall. He didn’t let his resignation to death seep into his eyes. Instead, he smiled, flexing every ounce of acting talent he’d accumulated over his long years.

“I’ve survived worse things,” he shrugged, sending them a wink. He sighed and put his hands on his hips. “I’m just sorry I’ve worried you boys this much. This was supposed to be us having _fun!_ ” He quickly walked up to Arthur’s face and clapped it in his hands. “Did you catch that Tyrant?”

“Uh, yeah…” Arthur muttered, backing away into the house and gesturing at the five-foot-long fish. 

“Caught it all by himself!” Hamish crooned.

Hosea hefted it into his hands and showed it off to the others. “ _Damn_ , son! Look at this monster!” The memory of Arthur’s first fishing trip resulting in a bloody meltdown juxtaposed against the beast of a pike made his forced smile and joy morph into something genuine and loving. He looked at Arthur, eyes crinkling. “I’ve never been more proud!” 

Arthur ducked his head to hide the rosiness rising in his cheeks, a tiny smile overcoming his anxious frown.

John and Lenny tentatively relaxed, looking to Arthur and patting him or punching him in the shoulder. John smirked and joked, “Didn’t know you and your big meaty mitts had it in you,” making Lenny cover his mouth and snort.

The dig made Arthur finally relax, and he fixed John with a withered glare. “Hmph. ‘Least I know how to _swim_.”

“Fair,” Lenny sing-songed with a one-handed shrug. Both boys playfully shoved at him and smiled, making him laugh and bat at them.

Hosea loved them so much.

\--

Much to Hosea’s chagrin, the boys practically railroaded him out of Hamish’s house not long after with only the briefest of goodbyes, and rode back to the Homestead with Hosea in the middle of their triangle, three pairs of anxious eyes all watching him. When they got home, the sun had set, and Arthur insisted on taking Silver Dollar to untack while John went to get Hosea a bowl of stew and Lenny firmly took him by the elbow and stated “You must be tired, Hosea, let me walk you to the house” with an edge of steel in his voice that allowed no room for protest.

Hosea made sure to level a dirty scowl at them all anyway, and when Lenny got him into the kitchen he deftly flicked the boy’s hand off his arm and warned, “If you try and put me to bed, boy, then so help me I’ll pick you up by the pants and toss you out the window.” With that, he sat heavily in the kitchen chair, crossed his legs, and used his foot to rock it backwards until it knocked and wedged itself against the wall, arms splayed out to rest on the back of the chair. The terms of his compromise had been set, and he would go no further.

Lenny sighed, then slowly came over to sit across from him. He gave him a look that Hosea couldn’t entirely make out in the dim light of the kitchen. 

“What’s wrong with your lungs?”

Hosea frowned at the question. “What’s it to you?”

“I care about you,” Lenny stated simply.

Damn. Got him.

Hosea let out a slow sigh and hated the rasp in it. He let his chair rock back onto its legs and turned to face the boy. “Asthma. Got diagnosed with it in… ‘74, thereabouts.” He chuckled darkly. “Never woulda got it checked out if Dutch hadn’t thought I was dying and pitched an almighty fit. Same difference anyways. Ain’t no cure, ain’t no treatment… That I have access to, anyway.” He shook his head. “Had it since I was a boy. Most days, I can manage it, but…”

They sat in silence for a minute. Then, Lenny asked, “Taking it easy helps, right?”

Hosea rubbed a hand over his face and over the back of his neck. “You and I both know I don’t have that luxury, son. Hell, I’d refuse to rest even if I did.” He stared at the far wall, eyes unfocused. A painting hung there that he and Bessie bought together. “I had that chance here. With old Bessie. She said everything you or the others could say and more. Tried to do more work around the property… did all of it, on the stormy days and the cold snaps. All while I was kept cooped up inside, feeling like an invalid. It was the closest we ever came to fighting.” He hung his head and interlaced his fingers together. Squeezed. 

“One day I… I rode out without telling her. Robbed a stagecoach. Showed up with nine hundred dollars and I… I guess I wanted her to be angry at me. Yell at me, throw things at me, _something…_ But what she did was so much worse.” He looked up at Lenny with wet eyes and a wobbly smile. “She forgave me.”

Lenny’s eyes twinkled and he reached out to put a hand on Hosea’s forearm where it rested on the table. Hosea went on, “I continued like that. Working in the rain and the ice, shooting up gang members in the Grizzlies and stealing their hauls. A fool and a bastard I was. A bad husband. Maybe Bessie was an even greater fool, ‘cause she just kept forgiving me. Kept loving me.” He slowly removed his hat and rested it in his lap. “Bessie was Catholic, y’know. Very spiritual woman. Never really understood what she saw in an atheistic Jew like me, but it never bothered her. She never pushed, either.” A smile flickered on his face for a second, gone the next. “I converted to make things easier, to try and feel something whenever she’d talk about God and angels and saints and Heaven and Hell. Was never really able to stomach it. But… part of me hopes it’s all true, so I can think of Bessie and our baby living happily in Heaven.”

“I’d sure like to think you’ll be reunited with them one day,” Lenny mused softly.

Hosea slowly shook his head. “No… No, I don’t think so. The reason the other part of me hopes it’s all a bunch of malarkey is because if it is true then I’m most definitely going down to Hell.”

Lenny squinted at him. “Doubtful.”

Hosea met his eyes, and whatever look was on his face made the boy pause. “You didn’t know me when I was younger, son,” he said quietly. “Even now, I’m a stubborn and prideful cuss. That bank job in Saint Denis was _my_ work, remember.” His voice broke and he had to look away. “There’s no rest for me. Never will be. ‘Cause I’m a damn fool, and I can’t change.”

“I don’t believe that,” Lenny said, sounding so casual and assured, as if he was stating the answer to a math problem. Hosea looked at him from where he was all hunched in on himself in his chair, and saw Lenny sitting upright and proper, a finger pressed delicately to the table and an eyebrow quirked skeptically like he was a University professor or a debating lawyer. Pinned under the young man’s analyzing eyes, Hosea realized exactly how he regularly got Dutch off-balance and flustered, speechless and impressed. 

“One,” Lenny began, and Hosea braced himself, “you’re obviously capable of change if your younger self was really as bad as you say you were, so either you’re a liar and a good man, or you’re a bad man who’s already proven that he has the capacity to better himself, and if you’ve done it once you can _keep_ doing it. Ain’t no excuse. _Second-_ ” hot damn the boy was good “-no single one of us was responsible for how things went down in Saint Denis. Either all of us were or none of us were, and the only reason Dutch died is because men pulled triggers on guns. That’s it.” A fire glinted in Lenny’s eyes, a single tremor shaking through his frame, and his voice carried steel once more. “So don’t fucking crucify yourself because you think you deserve to be punished, Hosea. Everyone in this gang loves you and wants you around as long as we can. So, if you _don’t mind_ , me and every other person here would appreciate it if you _cared for yourself_ . And you _will_ \- if you care for _us_.”

Hosea sat there, off-balance and flustered, speechless and impressed.

A few minutes later the front door opened and John came in with a bowl of stew. He tipped his hat at the two men and then set it down in front of Hosea before giving him a fond pat on the shoulder, seemingly not noticing his dumbstruck state, and then gave them a small wave before walking outside and shutting the door behind him.

Lenny looked at Hosea expectantly. With a low guffaw, Hosea smiled and picked up his spoon. “Well you sure as shit put me in my place, son.” He shoveled several spoonfuls of stew into his mouth as Lenny’s eyes glinted in triumph. Hosea swallowed, and added, “Between you and Arthur, you’re both gonna guilt-trip me into living to a hundred.”

“With any luck,” Lenny drawled, a smile gracing his lips as he crossed his arms and leaned back in the chair, relaxing.

Hosea swallowed down a few more spoonfuls before asking, “How are you holding up?”

Lenny blinked, his expression falling for a second, posture tightening. “I mean…” he let out a slow sigh and leaned forward to rest his elbows on the table. “About as well as I could be?” His expression crumpled. “All this change… It’s good change. I’m glad for it. But, God, it’s all so fast. And watching Dutch die like that…” His hands slowly curled into fists, and he remained silent for a long minute, staring at nothing. 

The image of red mist exploding out the back of Dutch again and again replayed behind Hosea’s eyes just as he was sure the same was happening with Lenny’s. The boy whispered, “I hadn’t felt like that since… since… my Daddy…”

Hosea silently set down his spoon and rose from his chair, crossing around the table to take Lenny into his arms and cinch him to his chest. As soon as his face was hidden, Lenny broke down and wept, and Hosea tucked the boy’s head under his chin, squeezing him tightly. 

Lenny reached his hands up and fisted them into Hosea’s shirt, a sob escaping his throat. “ _There’s so much hatred in this world_ ,” he cried. “Why’s it gotta be like that? Jenny, Mac, Davey, Sean, Kieran, Dutch… The O’Driscolls, the Braithwaites and Grays and all the whites like them, the Pinkertons, those crackers who killed my Daddy- why do they hate so much?! Why do they go so _far?!_ ” He sobbed again.

Hosea slowly closed his eyes. “I don’t know, son.”

“I’m _scared_.”

Hosea held him impossibly tighter. “I’m scared too.”

“I don’t feel safe anymore.”

After a long silence, Hosea slowly pulled away from Lenny and tilted his chin up with a finger to meet his eyes. “That’s why I’m going to need your help,” he said softly. “All of us are going to have to do all we can and work together if we’re going to make it to Canada. Each of us, watching each other’s backs. We’re gonna make a go of it.” He cupped Lenny’s jaw in his hand and stole a tear with his thumb. “I promise you that I will always do everything in my power to protect you, son. And I’ll need you to promise me that you’ll do everything in your power to keep me honest.”

A small yet genuine smile eased onto Lenny’s face as he wiped his tears on his sleeve, sniffling. “I think I can do that.”

Hosea pressed a kiss to his forehead, and Lenny pulled Hosea into another hug.

When Lenny’s face was all dry and Hosea had made four cups of chamomile tea on a platter, he handed one to Lenny and then let the boy hold the door open for him. He made his way out to camp and greeted everyone as he passed, enjoying the warmth and life of their presence where they were gathered around tables and campfires under the stars. He found John around one such fire, huddled under a blanket with Abigail, Jack sitting in his lap and Cain curled up on Abigail’s skirt. He smiled down at them and held out a cup of tea to John, who took it and thanked him with an easy grin. Hosea didn’t even hesitate to hold out the cup that was meant for himself to Abigail, who beamed at him and chirped “Thanks Hosea” with her eyes all crinkled up. He ruffled John’s hair and pressed a kiss to the top of her head, making sure to pinch Jack’s cheek and scratch Cain’s ear, before moving off to find Arthur lest anyone else’s face spur him to give away the last cup. He would definitely have to make more.

He found Arthur sitting and coughing on the cot in his tent, his open journal abandoned next to his hip as he wetly hacked into his sleeve. When Hosea appeared in the entrance, he flipped his journal shut and cleared his throat, trying and failing to stifle the last couple coughs. Hosea knit his brow, but said nothing, instead opting to silently hold out the cup of hot tea. Arthur took it gratefully and smiled at him, all the tension in his body easing away at the smell of the chamomile and the way Hosea wrapped his hand around Arthur’s far shoulder and squeezed the man’s frame against his stomach. 

“Get some rest, you’ll need it,” he softly chided. “I’m turning in myself, soon, once I spoil everyone and myself with tea.”

Arthur took a deep gulp of the tea and cleared his throat again. “Thank ya.” Hosea turned to leave, but paused when he heard “...for everythin’.”

Hosea turned back with a soft grin and poked Arthur’s shoulder. “Same to you, son.” Arthur sagged and curled around his cup of tea, but for once it didn’t seem to be from exhaustion or defeat - just easy comfort.

Karen and Javier returned to camp during the time Hosea spent making more tea. They both greeted him in the house and excitedly informed him of the passes they found in the mountains, one easily passable by wagon far to the east near Brandywine Drop and another through a cave almost due north of the Homestead that the wagons might be able to get through if they were desperate. Hosea thanked and praised them both for their work and rewarded them with tea.

It was when Hosea was crossing the camp again back towards the house after his third tea run that he spotted the tall, dark figure standing over the graves of Bessie and their baby, wearing a smart black suit and a top hat. Surprised that Trelawny was back unannounced, Hosea hurried over towards him.

He was just about to open his mouth and greet ‘Howdy, friend’ when he finally got close enough for the moonlight to illuminate several key features that made the man distinctively Not Trelawny. For one, the man was stockier and broader, his face more square-shaped and his moustache a touch thicker. Even more than the visual cues, however, was the… aura, that the man gave off. Trelawny radiated whimsical and welcoming energy, meant to lure people in with honey-sweet words and magical fingers, inviting them in close and into thieving range. This man made Hosea’s feet freeze a good six feet away, feeling the hair on his arms and neck and face stand on end, like the air was full of static electricity.

The strange man did not even look up at him as he approached, continuing to stare neutrally at the graves, and greeted in a voice far, far too deep and smooth to be Trelawny’s, “Hello, Hosea. Hosea Matthews.”

Hosea swallowed thickly, subtly passing the tea tray to his left hand. “Do I know you?” he asked, doing his best to keep his tone open, friendly, disarming. Not quite succeeding. The way the man was looking at Bessie’s and their baby’s graves was making his trigger finger itch.

The strange man finally flicked cold, dark eyes up to look at him. “I hope so. I seem to know you. You _and_ Dutch van der Linde are… old acquaintances of mine.” He paused, a barely perceivable huff coming from his nose. “Mr. van der Linde is perhaps more familiar.”

Hosea frowned despite himself. Caught it. Forced himself to relax his posture, cock a hip, and lift his mouth back up into a neutral line. “I’m afraid I don’t recall your face, friend.” 

A dark, well-groomed eyebrow arced upwards. “You don’t? Do you remember… Eleanor Stephens’s face?”

Hosea searched desperately through his memory for the name. Came up with nothing except a faint feeling of dread, a brick of lead dropped into his stomach screaming a warning that he couldn’t match to anything. There was the vague sensation of something slithering across his foot, but he ignored it.

“Afraid not.”

The strange man’s mouth curved downward. His voice sounded almost mournful as he said, “Then why would you remember me, friend? You’ve forgotten far more important people than me.”

Hosea swallowed again. “Why are you here? If this is something to do with Dutch, the man’s dead.”

“Oh, it has something to do with Mr. van der Linde all right,” the man drawled, turning his gaze out to the night and showing his back to Hosea. A gesture of ignorance or dominance. Hosea would put his money on the latter. “The man cheated me out of something I was due to collect. Changed the game into something entirely new. Unexpected. An ongoing story that is beyond my vision… along with the rest of my debts.” He primly fixed the lapel of his suit-jacket and turned his head to side-eye Hosea over his shoulder. “With him gone, _you_ inherit those debts.”

Hosea’s fingers slowly flexed closer to the handle of Dutch’s Schofield, then straightened out again. “What is this debt, then?” he asked, voice too terse. He gritted his teeth. He couldn’t just slip into his easygoing conman persona with a man that so obviously posed a threat. Knowing the location of their camp. Able to see the others laughing and talking among the tents and wagons behind him. His family, brittle and fragile and vulnerable, unaware of the danger.

The strange man turned around to face him and clasped his hands behind his back. “Listen,” he sighed, beginning to pace in a slow circle around Hosea, who refused to move his feet but kept an eagle-like eye on the man, “sometimes I just wish… I had known more about life. Wish I’d had better guidance… A friend of mine, is gonna pay you a visit tomorrow morning. He is very angry, and very vengeful. Set him on the right path, won’t you?”

Hosea’s hand drifted closer to the handle of Dutch’s revolver. “Is that a threat?” he asked coldly.

The strange man blinked. “Is it?”

Hosea’s hackles raised. “I think it’s time for you to get off my property,” he hissed.

“Or what?” the man drawled.

Hosea’s fingers knocked against the handle of the Schofield, but a gust of wind blew at that moment, ruffling the flowers gathered around the graves of Bessie and their baby. Hosea’s eyes lowered to them, and he felt his heart stutter where it was pounding in his chest. He could almost feel the whisper of fingers curling around his hand, pulling it away from the gun.

In one raspy exhale, Hosea slumped, lowering his gaze from the man as he hugged his arms around himself. “Please,” he begged, voice quiet and broken. “We’ve been through so much. Just… leave. _Please_.”

A long pause. Then, “...As you wish.”

He saw the finely polished black shoes of the man turn and start walking away. There was an itch racing up and down his spine and pooling in the nape of his neck uncannily familiar to Dutch’s hissed whispers that was screaming to draw his gun when the man’s back was turned and unload the chamber into the back of his head, stop him from getting away with the knowledge of who he was, who the gang was, and where they were. Screamed that the strange man had the power to damn them all. 

Yet, it was exactly that knowledge that made Hosea decide to still his hand. Stay still in general, save for the heave of his chest where he was hyperventilating. The shake of his frame as he shivered.

He had no idea how long he stood there, brain reeling with whether or not he did the right thing. He didn’t even know the man’s name. There were so many unknowns, and Hosea reasoned that that’s why he didn’t act. Unknowns get people killed. To use such a permanent solution on a man of such unknowns could only end in disaster.

“Hosea?”

Hosea gasped and whirled around only to see Tilly standing beside him, coat drawn close around her against the chill of the night air. She was looking at him with big, sleepy, worried eyes, lips parted as she took in his shivering hunched form and thousand mile stare, breaths far too fast. Tentatively, she reached out and wrapped a hand around his shoulder. “You okay?”

Was he? Would he be? Would _they_ be?

Tilly’s eyebrows knit even further upwards when he didn’t respond. “Come on, let’s get you to bed.”

Hosea didn’t protest or resist at all, and let the young woman lead him away.

Was the whole exchange even real?

\--

Hosea slept like shit. Every joint in his body screamed and kept screaming until they reached a fever-pitch whenever he was in any one position for more than five minutes, making him toss and turn, punch his pillow, toss and turn again. He even moved to the floor at one point, laid out flat like a corpse in his bedroll, where he finally managed to slip in and out of hazy, painful sleep, haunted further by the sensation of something slithering over his legs, across his stomach and over his arms, a warning hiss nearing his throat, the distant and distorted voice of a woman saying something he couldn’t make out. When he felt the vibrations of a diamondback rattle on his chest he jolted awake, gasping for breath and tearing out of his bedroll, knocking his spine against the bed frame and ignoring the zing of agony it caused to dive for one of Dutch’s Schofields, scramble until his back was pressed against the wall, gun aimed with the hammer cocked back at the bed roll. He waited for movement. A slither. A hiss. A rattle.

Nothing happened.

Didn’t stop the sensation that tiny, beady eyes were watching him.

He was not well.

Not fifteen minutes later, Hosea was fully dressed and outside stalking around camp, the sun’s light only barely making it above the horizon. He immediately started making coffee at the scout fire and slammed back a whiskey, hand tight over the bottle as an itch formed across his skin begging him to grab another whiskey and keep drinking forever.

“You okay Hosea?”

Bill’s concerned voice made him grind his teeth. He snapped his gaze over to the man standing guard at the path, sleepy eyes blinking at him repeatedly.

“ _Peachy_ ,” Hosea ground out. He tossed the bottle aside, grabbed his tin mug and filled it with coffee, then perched himself on a crate staring out at the path, not bothering to blow on the drink before trying to drink it, spitting it out on the ground when it inevitably burned his mouth. Coffee sloshed in the mug in a rhythmic tempo. Tick, tick, tick, tick.

“Okay good! ‘Cause I was kinda hopin’ to talk to ya.”

“Eyes on the path,” Hosea snapped, glancing upwards to see Bill zip his head back down the path and stiffen, standing ramrod straight. Hosea glared back down at his coffee and blew on it, taking a hesitant sip. He hated the rapid beat of his heart in his ears. Hated feeling like he was being timed.

Hated waiting for the strange man’s “friend” who may or may not be real.

With a slow sigh, Hosea squeezed his eyes shut and shook his head. He took another long drink of coffee, then downed the whole thing. After swallowing down the scalding liquid, he tossed the cup haphazardly on the ground and moved off to the armory to grab a rifle, then slowly stalked over to stand beside Bill, squinting into the shadows of the trees.

He took a minute to mull over asking Bill to swap out with him so that he could be alone, but he knew he wasn’t at his best after his turbulent night’s sleep. If the strange man’s “friend” was some kind of enforcer, Hosea’s presence alone wouldn’t be enough to deter him, especially after his cowardly display in front of the man the night before. He knew that Bill fought like a cornered wildcat, and he also knew that Bill had transplanted his almost religious loyalty to Dutch onto him. Knew that the man would die for him without hesitation. Would die for the others.

Another part of Hosea’s brain whispered that the only real threat present could be Hosea himself, hallucinating imagined threats just like Dutch in the worst of his episodes. The thought made a wave of nausea wash over him.

Warily, he slowly sat down on the stump to try and calm down. When it had no effect on his zinging nerves or pounding heartbeat, he stood up again and let out a small, frustrated growl. He caught Bill looking at him out of the corner of his eye, but when he turned his head the man was still staring stone-faced down the path, jaw-clenched, back straight. Like a post, or… a soldier.

A guilt-tinged sigh escaped Hosea’s nose as he let his rifle sag, freeing a hand to reach up and rub at his left eye, where a piercing, throbbing pain was building. He massaged his temple and swallowed, steeling himself for what he was about to do.

“You… wanted to talk?” he asked, voice quiet and inviting.

The tension in Bill’s posture eased away almost immediately, and the man shot him a nervous glance before returning his gaze to the forest. “Uh, yeah, I uh… The other day, the night I came back? In the barn?” He smothered his voice down into a whisper, throwing antsy glances over his shoulders at the sleeping forms of the others. “You said I could get… a _husband?_ ”

Hosea shrugged. “Yeah?”

Bill looked back down the path with a scrunched up expression, eyebrows knitted up in confusion. “How… I mean, _how?_ ”

A silent chuckle slipped out of Hosea. “There are many ways I could answer that, Bill. You might need to narrow it down.”

Bill made a vague gesture. “I mean… as in, how does that even _work?_ ”

Hosea squinted and slid his eyes over to fully take in Bill, an eyebrow quirking slightly. “Well… it ain’t _legal_ , if that’s what you’re asking. But there is such a thing that folk call ‘bachelor marriages.’ Two men can settle down and raise children just as well as a man and woman can. Woman and woman, too. They just won’t have a marriage certificate or any legal recognition.”

“Woman and _woman…?_ ” Bill asked, voice rising into a falsetto.

A smile flashed on Hosea’s face despite himself. “Did you not know that women could love each other?”

Bill was gaping around at the trees, the ground, the sky, and finally at Hosea. “Well, women always love each other! They’re _women_ , it’s what they _do!_ But men… I don’t get it. That ain’t how it works!”

“Ain’t how _what_ works?”

“ _Y’know…_ ” Bill made more desperate hand gestures. “Marriage and women and all that is _soft_ , but two men together… that ain’t soft. And I don’t think it’s right for two men to raise children.”

Hosea squinted into the middle-distance for a long moment, equations swirling around his head as he tried to piece together what the hell Bill could possibly be getting at. “Bill… what does it mean - what does two men being together mean to you?”

Bill sucked a cheek in and looked around warily before shouldering his rifle and turning to Hosea, forming a hole with one hand and forming a fist with the other with the pointer finger extended, before pumping the pointer finger into the hole. Hosea instantly slapped his hands down with a sharp _smack_.

“Well it _is!_ ” Bill whined.

Hosea grimaced at him. “I’m still struggling to understand how that can’t be soft. And you can do more than _fuck each other_ , for _fuck’s_ sake.”

Bill gave him a skeptical, questioning look. “Well fuckin’s all about dominance, right? One of yus has gotta be the woman. If you’re ever on the receiving end, ya lose your manhood, so you either find a bitch or you make a feller your bitch.”

Hosea stared at him in open horror. “Who the _fuck_ taught you that?!” he hissed.

“My daddy,” Bill shrugged. “He said it resets after you reach adulthood, so it didn’t count. I’m still a man.”

Hosea’s horror shifted. 

Time passed. 

Slowly, he leaned over onto his knees and coughed, spitting out the bile that slithered up from his stomach. Bill reached out a tentative hand to rest on his back, and Hosea couldn’t find it in himself to remove it. He spat on the ground once more, then slowly stood up, a slight tremor vibrating through his frame as he felt heat rise to his face. “Bill?” he asked quietly, voice low and cold.

“Y-Yeah?”

“Is your father still alive?”

“I… N-Not with the w-way he was drinkin’, I don’t r-reckon, no.”

“ _Good_ ,” Hosea snarled. “Otherwise I’d put a bullet in his head _myself_ .” In the next second, he rounded on Bill and snatched the front of Bill’s shirt in his hands, shaking him and baring his teeth at the man. “Because that is never okay. _Ever!_ Any man who touches a child is sick and deranged and should be put down like a _fucking dog_ . And you know what? _Look at me._ ” He shook Bill again and the towering brute of a man trembled in Hosea’s grasp, eyes wide. “Any man who touches _anyone_ like that, woman _or man_ , without their _enthusiastic_ goddamn consent is also sick and deranged, and deserves the same goddamn fate. Because that’s not a man. That’s a _sickness_ .” He shook Bill one last time and then dropped him to the ground, where he curled up against the stump, arms coming up to shield himself against the violent arc of Hosea’s looming figure towering above him. “ _You better tell me right now_ , Williamson. Have you ever touched a child?”

Bill frantically shook his head.

“Have you ever taken anyone against their will?”

Bill hesitated. When Hosea snarled and reached for his knife, Bill curled up into a ball and cried “I-I tried to, in the Army, but I got caught and nothing happened, and there was this feller in the swamp north of Saint Denis, we wrestled around b-but h-h-he was the one trying to do weird things t’me and he was into it, I paid a feller behind a saloon once to suck my cock, that’s all the times that done ever happened I _swear-_ ”

Hosea slowly relaxed and backed off. He dragged a hand down his face with a sigh, looked down the path to scan for any movement, then slowly sat down on the stump above where Bill was still curled into a ball. Carefully, hesitantly, he reached down a hand and pressed it against Bill’s shoulder, rubbing in slow, soothing circles. “You didn’t deserve what your father did to you,” he said, slowly. “You understand that, right?”

Bill nodded.

“And you understand that it was wrong, right?”

Bill nodded.

Hosea sighed, hesitating to say the words he was going to say next. It was cruel, but he didn’t have the time to slowly decondition Bill’s brain from all the bullshit it had sponged up. The shortcut was crass, but if it violently knocked Bill off the track he was currently on, it would be worth it. He frowned, then carefully said, “Do you remember Kieran? With his… scruffy little beard, and those big brown doe eyes? How soft and kind he was to the horses, how happy they made him? The smile he made when he let his guard down?”

Bill slowly lowered his arms, and shuffled until he was sitting up. He looked up at Hosea and nodded, tears forming in his eyes.

Hosea leaned forward onto his knees and lowered his voice even further. “I want you… to _think_. How would you feel if you learned that the O’Driscolls had grabbed him, dragged him out of camp, and raped him?” Bill made a pained noise, rage flashing in his eyes. “Would that be ‘just how things work’? Would Kieran have been asking for it? Would he have deserved it?”

“ _No_ ,” Bill snarled, shaking with barely constrained anger. “I would’ve hunted each and every single one of those sons of bitches down and cut their cocks off and choked ‘em to death on ‘em!”

“Why?”

Bill jerked at the question. “ _‘Cause he deserves better than that!_ ” His expression crumpled a bit and he looked away. “Deserved...” His fists clenched.

“Then tell me this, Bill. Would _you_ have ever taken him against his will?”

Bill slowly tucked his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on them, looking absolutely miserable. “No,” he said quietly. “But I wanted him.”

Hosea rubbed at his temple. “Did you want to make him scared and make him cry, or did you want him to have fun and smile?”

Bill’s head sank further behind his knees. “That last one.”

Hosea waited a minute, letting Bill stew in that revelation. Then, quietly, he said, “You realize that men can _make love_ to each other? And that there’s nothing they could do between each other that would make either of them any less of a man?”

Bill sucked in a slow breath and held it, his brow furrowing. He blinked rapidly, then let it out in a huff, turning to Hosea in confusion. “I’ve never heard anything like that before.”

Hosea crossed his legs and resituated his rifle. “I’m gonna make you think again, Bill. Now, am I a man?” 

Bill snorted and nodded. 

“Do you think I’m tough? Competent? Do you respect me?”

“P’ _chyeah_ ,” Bill huffed. “You’re tougher than dry turkey full of grit.”

Hosea leaned down until Bill looked him in the eye. “... _Think_ , Bill.”

Bill thought. He thought and thought, searching Hosea all over for some kind of answer, eyes furiously squinted and skittering around. It lasted so long that Hosea had to break his gaze to stare down the path, and resigned himself to feeling the stare of Bill peering at his profile. Then, after several long minutes, he saw Bill jerk and almost fall over, mouth forming a large comical ‘O.’

“ _You-?!_ Y-You were- You took fellers’ c- _YOU?_ ”

Hosea rolled his eyes so hard he felt the muscles strain. “ _Yes_ , you dumb fool.”

“I-I…” Bill blinked rapidly, looking like the stars were exploding out of his brain. His jaw flapped a few times, before he managed “Did Du- Did you-” he made a few lewd hand gestures “Did you and Dutch-”

“ _We’re not going there._ ”

Bill retracted his neck into his coat and pressed his lips into a thin line, red quickly overtaking his cheeks. Hosea squinted at him and wrinkled his nose, adding, “And if you are _imagining_ anything, you _better_ not be.”

Bill cleared his throat roughly and resituated again. Then, warily, he side-eyed Hosea. “Were you and Dutch bachelor husbands?”

Hosea mulled over the question for a stretch. “We were…” he sighed and shook his head. “Something. The way we loved each other wasn’t like that.” He frowned. “We wouldn’t be a good model to base any relationship off of anyway,” he muttered darkly, recalling all the times Dutch broke his heart or made him scared. All the times _he_ made _Dutch_ scared. He curled in on himself slightly, hand reaching up to stroke the handkerchief, shaking his head against the dark memories.

“Well you two sure coulda fooled me,” Bill mused, pulling Hosea out of the fog. “After our talk in the barn, y’know, I figured Dutch couldn’t have been one of the fellers you’d lied with ‘cause you’re both great men. But… that ain’t the case no more, right? Not the you two not bein’ great men part-” he stuttered awkwardly, tripping over his tongue. He made a frustrated noise and restarted, “All that ‘making love’ talk. I never done seen a pair of men who I thought could be all soft and sweet on each other, ‘cept… you an’ Dutch. Makes a feller wonder. You weren’t able to see him look at ya when you were looking away, but I was, and I never really made anything of it ‘till now. You’re both the greatest men I’ve ever known, and the thought of me and a feller having what you two had - even if y’all _were_ just friends - well, that’d be…” he cleared his throat and blew out his cheeks. “Real nice.”

A memory floated to the surface at Bill’s words. Of a time Hosea caught Dutch looking. He and Arthur had been sitting in the middle of camp in the summer of ‘79, playing dominoes with the brand new set that Dutch bought on impulse. Arthur had ecstatically declared _Domino!_ , but Hosea poked his nose and informed the boy that he still lost the round. Arthur was scrambling all the dominoes again and making pouty confused noises as Hosea laughed, and that was when he slid his eyes over to Dutch where he was sitting a little ways away on a crate, cleaning his guns. Or had been. The gun and gun oil were both held slack in his hands, forgotten, as he looked at Hosea and Arthur with the softest smile and most shining eyes that Hosea had ever seen on his face before or since.

Bessie’s voice came to him then. _No regrets._

He and Dutch may have been toxicly co-dependent, and if Dutch magically walked into camp alive and well Hosea would run him out in two seconds until he swore to change and begged at their sons’ feet for forgiveness, but Hosea could never wish they’d never met. In fact, he shuddered with dread whenever he imagined the man he’d be without Dutch. The Hosea Matthews who encountered Dutch on the side of that Pennsylvanian road in 1873 was a predator - little more than a silver-tongued sociopath who saw people as puzzles, obstacles, or dollar-signs. Dutch’s starry-eyed idealism and the earnest passion for life he wore on his sleeve breached Hosea’s thick defensive walls. The way he always told Hosea the truth, even when Hosea had wove a web of lies around him, humbled and shamed him. And the things he shared so earnestly, his money and his food and his thoughts, little stolen moments of held pinkies and play-wrestling in the grass, Dutch’s hands pinning him down as he whispered in his ear _Don’t you see? There’s a light in you, Hosea. You can be so much more._ \- made him believe, for the first time, that there was good in the world worth fighting for.

Hosea sighed, his bones aching with how tired the memories made him, then looked down at Bill. “If you ever find someone, just remember - love is all that matters. Love and truth. If you trust in love and truth, Bill, then I reckon you’ll be all right.”

Bill cautiously hefted himself up onto his feet and picked up his rifle. He rolled his shoulders back and took a deep breath, nodding resolutely at himself. He shuffled his feet and looked at Hosea, head held low. “And you think I could be a dad?”

Hosea offered him a genuine smile. “I do.”

Bill grinned big and wide and ducked his head again, looking back at the camp where folks were crawling out of their tents and bed rolls and stumbling to the fires to wind themselves up for another long day of learning things outside their comfort zone. John was carrying a crying Jack over to a log by a fire and sat down, balancing the boy on his knee and talking lowly to him. Eventually, the boy wiped at his tears and nodded, then smiled and started giggling when John started bouncing him on his knee and making galloping noises. Bill’s eyes twinkled at the sight, and Hosea smiled.

“Thank you,” Bill said quietly, scuffing the ground with his boot. “I’m used to only Dutch believing in me.”

Hosea smirked. “I always come around to seeing what he saw in folk eventually.”

Bill snorted. “Except Micah?”

“Except Micah,” Hosea drawled. “I _do_ have my limits.”

Bill bobbed his head up and down, sucking in his cheek again. “Glad I’m in your limits. You can get real scary.”

“And don’t you forget it.”

At that moment, the two men were distracted by the approaching beat of horse hooves. Hosea stood and joined Bill in readying his rifle in seconds.

“Who goes there?!” Bill called out.

“Charles!” came the call from the shadows. Sure enough, Taima’s head emerged from the darkness, with Charles on top of her, expression tight. Sitting behind him was a stranger - a young native man, hair long and loose and half obscuring his face, head held high with his chin jutted out. Hosea shouldered his rifle as they approached, watching with wary eyes as Charles and the young man dismounted, approaching him with stiff, purposeful steps.

“Pardon me if this is a surprise,” Charles said lowly, glancing sideways at the young man. 

“Anyone you trust, son, I trust,” Hosea said easily, holding out his hand. “Hosea Matthews.”

The man looked at the outstretched hand critically before taking it and shaking it in a firm grip. “Eagle Flies.”

Arthur’s fast-approaching footsteps caused them all to turn, and Charles’s expression eased almost imperceptibly so at the sight of the man. “Charles! Eagle Flies!”

Charles opened his mouth but Eagle Flies cut him off with a terse, “Arthur, I need your help.”

Bill was vibrating in the middle of the exchange, so Hosea grabbed his shoulder and gestured for him to leave. Bill nodded jerkily and hurried off. With Bill gone, Arthur shook Eagle Flies’s hand in greeting and nodded, glancing between him and Hosea before saying, “Hosea, this is Eagle Flies, his father is a great chief. Charles and I, we erm…”

Eagle Flies turned away from Arthur back to Hosea, expression tightening again. “Pretended to be mercenaries,” he completed for him. “Did me a great favor.”

Hosea nodded slightly, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “I take it things are not well with your tribe?”

Eagle Flies clenched his jaw. “No.”

Arthur straightened. “How’s your father?” he asked quickly.

Eagle Flies spared Arthur a glance before aggressively making eye contact with Hosea, a light flaring in his eyes like a wildfire. “Father has confused... _wisdom_ with _weakness_ . His people, my people… we’ve _suffered_ too much. Been _lied_ to too much. Now, they’ve taken our horses.”

Hosea drew his head back slightly. “‘They?’”

Charles frowned at him. “The infantry division posted at Fort Wallace.” 

Hosea’s eyes widened. “Well, shit.” He furrowed his brow and sighed, shaking his head at the ground. “What’s their excuse this time?”

Eagle Flies took half a step forward into his space and growled, still making furious eye contact, “Colonel Favours is a _liar_ and a _murderer…_ his people won’t stop until we’re all _dead_ . Without horses, we cannot hunt. Without hunting… we will _starve_ . _This is another act of war._ ”

Hosea dragged a hand down his face. “No, son, it’s not. He’s trying to show off how much he outpowers you all.”

Eagle Flies jerked his chin and huffed, snarling, “All the more reason it should be _answered_.” He looked between Arthur and Charles. “You men have helped me before, and I have money.” He pulled a money clip out of his pocket and shoved it at Hosea.

Hosea raised a hand against it. “You and your tribe need that money far more than we do.” He looked at Charles, knowing and trusting the boy’s level head and far-sight. “What are your thoughts on this, Charles?”

Charles looked at Eagle Flies and squared his shoulders. “You know I told your father I will _not_ fight over some horses.”

A long silence fell over the men as Eagle Flies gritted his teeth. He snapped his head over to Arthur. “Arthur?”

Charles and Hosea looked at Arthur at the same time with matching pairs of warning eyes. Arthur wavered under their three gazes for a beat, wilting slightly. “I… can’t go against your father.”

“ _You,_ ” Eagle Flies snapped, turning to Hosea, fists clenched, eyes half-crazed. “You have no fealty to my father. You owe him no loyalty. You must understand, if we take no action against this act of violence, we will _die!_ We will ALL DIE! You lead these men, _order them_ to join me and help me get our horses _back!_ Or join me yourself!”

Hosea crossed his arms and frowned, eyes narrowing slightly. “ _Think_ for a second. We go off to wherever the army’s holding your horses, and what? Kill them? Even if we magically steal all your horses back without them ever knowing we were there, they’ll know instantly who’s responsible, and they will _retaliate_ far and beyond any reason. _Son_ , these men are _looking_ for an excuse. They are scrambling for _any reason_ to walk into your reservation and massacre you all. I help you, and I may as well fire the bullets myself.”

A guttural snarl ripped its way out of Eagle Flies’s throat as he whirled on all three men. “You are all _cowards_ and _traitors!_ I should have known that you would never help my people and go against your own kind! _You’re all the same!_ ”

Charles reeled backwards, eyes wide and hurt. “My own kind...?!”

“ _You heard me_ ,” Eagle Flies hissed. He turned to sneer at Arthur, then spat on Hosea’s boot. “If you will not help me, I will get our horses back with only my men, because that’s all we’ve ever had and that’s all we’ll _ever need!_ ” And with that, he turned on his heel and stormed off towards the forest.

Hosea swallowed. “Wait.”

Eagle Flies stopped.

With a slow sigh, Hosea stood up straight and squared his shoulders. “I’ll help you.” Charles and Arthur threw him betrayed glances. “But first, I want to show you something.”

Arthur grabbed at his elbow and looked at him, hurt, but Hosea gently mouthed _Trust me_. Arthur shared a look with Charles, and both men nodded and stood down as Eagle Flies tentatively turned around and stepped closer.

“What could you possibly show me that’s relevant?” Eagle Flies growled.

“Information about your enemy,” Hosea stated flatly. “I have it in the house. Let me show it to you, and then we’ll ride out. Follow me.”

Eagle Flies looked between Charles and Arthur, then warily followed Hosea across the camp, where everyone had frozen in what they were doing - sewing, assembling and disassembling guns, cleaning pelts, identifying herbs and the like - to stare at Eagle Flies. One raised eyebrow from Hosea had them all looking away and resuming what they were doing.

Finally, they made it to the front door of the house, and Hosea opened it before gesturing Eagle Flies inside. The man tensed like it was a trap, but warily stepped across the barrier, eyes quickly casing the main room before snapping back to Hosea. Hosea stepped inside and shut the door behind them, then gestured for Eagle Flies to follow him as he led him to the bedroom.

“Tell me, Eagle Flies. Do you have a best friend?”

Eagle Flies ground his teeth again. “Why do you ask?”

“I’m assuming you’d bring the people closest to you along for something as dangerous as raiding the U.S. Army. Will your best friend be among them?”

The young man let out a small sigh. “Yes. His name is Paytah. He is the finest man and bravest warrior I know.”

“Mm,” Hosea said absently, opening the main bedroom door and walking inside. Eagle Flies paused in the doorway and looked around, frowning as Hosea began unstacking crates to reach one at the bottom, digging around in it.

“What does Paytah have t-...” Eagle Flies trailed off as Hosea stood up with a wad of clothing in his hands, then turned around and violently flung them onto the floor, directly into a strip of sunlight shining in from the window. The blood-drenched suit furled out to fully expose the violent bloom of deep scarlet drenched all across the front of the fabric, so deep and thick it soaked all the way through.

“That’s the suit I wore when I held my dying best friend in my arms,” Hosea said, voice shaking as hard as his body was. Eagle Flies looked at him, stunned. “It wasn’t quick. _No_ , no, no, Dutch took over a dozen bullets but it took over a minute for him to finally die. I could hear his lungs working through the holes in his chest. He was in agony the whole time.” He slowly began advancing on Eagle Flies, tears flooding and escaping his eyes. “You see, my Dutch spoke a lot like you did. We dedicated our whole lives to fighting against _‘civilization,’_ against the law, against the government, precisely because of men like Colonel Favours and Leviticus Cornwall. We never expected that we could win, but we thought we could make things better. Maybe just a little bit.”

Eagle Flies tried to stand tall and stare Hosea down, but his wide and sympathetic eyes betrayed him. He flinched and took a half-step back when Hosea screamed “ _We just made things worse!_ Those men?! The police, the Pinkertons, the _fucking Army?!_ You can kill a hundred of them, a thousand, a _hundred thousand_ , and there will always be FUCKING more and for every man they lose they come to take _tenfold_ from _you!_ And believe me son, we’ve spent a good twenty years trying, but they never fucking _STOP!_ ”

Eagle Flies began slowly backing down the hallway as Hosea continued his advance, feeling all of his rage and grief and terror come roaring out of him like a twister. “Do you have any idea how much I’ve lost to men so much lesser than Colonel Favours? Do you have any idea how much you and your people will lose? What your father will lose?!” The house shook with the force of Hosea’s scream as he bellowed “ _I’ve buried four fucking children!_ Jenny Kirk, Davey Calloway, Mac Calloway, Sean Macguire! All of them taken by law! Sean was the only one who went QUICK with half of his fucking head blown off! We couldn’t even get to Mac, he died _scared_ and _alone!_ Is that what you want for you and your men? Do you want your father to bury you?! Do you want Paytah’s to bury him?! Or any of the other parents of your men?!”

“No-”

Hosea pointed furiously down the hallway. “Look out the _fucking window!_ Those are my people! My family! And we are _powerless!_ It’s all we can do to _run and hide!_ Your people are _trapped_ , and that makes your situation so much worse. What will your people do when they come for you?! When they come to shoot your children, rape your women, and slit your throat in front of your father?! Me and mine can run - yours can’t even do _that_.”

Enraged tears pricked Eagle Flies’s eyes as he bared his teeth and shook his head. Hosea finally gasped in a breath and slumped against the wall, bracing himself on his forearm, breathing heavily.

Eagle Flies stared at him for a long moment, quivering. “So that’s it?” he hissed. “Me and my people… we’re just supposed to lie down and die?” He shook his head and glared down at Hosea. “You are tired, and broken, just like Father.”

“No,” Hosea said gruffly, shaking his head. He cleared his throat and stood up, wiping the sweat from his brow with his sleeve. “There are more ways to fight back than with violence or directly interacting with your enemy. Your tribe is involved in a deadly poker game, son. The trick is to shove an ace up your sleeve.” He took a deep breath, steadying himself on the wall again, coughing a few times into his elbow. “I’m still going to help you,” he said. “I’m a man of my word. We’re going to get your tribe some horses, only I’m afraid they won’t be your old ones.”

Eagle Flies blinked and nodded once, stance widening in excitement. “What do you have in mind?”

Hosea gestured vaguely at the far wall. “I know of two herds of wild horses near your people’s land. I also know of an abandoned ranch up around those parts, probably about a half-hour’s walk from the reservation. If we can herd the two herds into that pasture… you’ll have to break them in, and it’ll be a hell of a walk, but it’s something.”

Eagle Flies nodded again, breaths picking up. “Yes. That… That could work.” He looked at Hosea and steeled his expression. “...Thank you.”

Hosea slowly dipped his head at the young man in respect. “I ain’t worth thankin’, son. Now let’s go get those horses.”

\--

The two men left the house and went to the horse pasture, where Hosea called up Silver Dollar and one of the spare Tennessee Walkers - a golden palomino. He hitched them both to the fence and invited Eagle Flies to grab a spare set of tack for the Walker, but the boy only took the bridle, wrinkling his nose at the saddle and calling it cumbersome. As they were slipping the bits into their respective horses’ mouths, Arthur and Charles approached with Killer and Taima tacked up and ready. Hosea informed them of the plan, and visible relief washed over both mens’ faces. Eagle Flies awkwardly invited them along, avoiding eye contact, and both men agreed readily.

The four of them were cantering westward down the trail towards Donner Falls when Eagle Flies frowned at Charles, sighing approximately six times before finally managing, “I… apologize.”

Charles looked at him, mouth drawn tight and brow furrowed upwards. “Why?”

“For… lumping you into the likes of Favours’s men.” Eagle Flies’s expression shifted across all manner of emotions. “You are tribeless, but you are a friend to my people. A brother. What I said was… cruel.”

Charles stayed silent for a long while, before finally saying, “...Thank you.”

None of them spoke after that. Eventually, they reached the falls, and Hosea drew them all to a stop as they looked out at the raging Dakota River. He cleared his throat, then projected his voice above the roar of the water to say, “The ranch is up north, about ten miles from here, hidden in a ravine. We’ll split up into two teams to go after the herds. Arthur? Charles? You’re together. Fan out southeast and look for a herd. Eagle Flies and I will search northeast.”

Arthur and Charles nodded silently as Hosea and Eagle Flies took off northward down the trail. After riding for a couple miles, they turned into the rough terrain of the forest, easing their horses down into a walk as they picked their way over rocks and scraggly tree roots. After about twenty minutes of searching for any signs of a horse herd, Eagle Flies cleared his throat. “Why do you care?”

Hosea glanced at him from where he was scanning the ground for tracks. “Hmm?”

“Why do you care?” Eagle Flies repeated.

“About… your tribe?” Hosea prompted.

Eagle Flies nodded.

Hosea mulled over the question for a minute as he continued to scan the ground and the treeline. Eventually, he mused, “To be honest with you, son, there used to be a time where I wouldn’t have given a damn. I was a ‘fuck you, got mine’ son of a bitch. Then I… met two people… and…” He sighed, opening up his waterskin and guzzling half a dozen mouthfuls before continuing, wiping his mouth on his sleeve, “The only real way to win against this fucked up world is to give from yourself. To leave something good behind, because money’s temporary, and killing folk - even bad folk - is just… taking. That doesn’t help or protect people. Not really. If you want your life to mean something, you help people, when you can. That’s the only thing that lasts in this world.”

“You have lost much,” Eagle Flies said quietly. “Me, my father, my people… we have lost much more. The thought of us… giving anything, to _anyone_ , outside of our tribe-”

“Well that’s different,” Hosea interrupted gently. “Y’all don’t owe other folk _anything_. But you’re helping each other. That counts.”

Eagle Flies fixed Hosea with a skeptical look. “Then why help people other than your own? You don’t owe outsiders anything, either.”

Hosea huffed. “You’re too smart, son. But you’re also wrong. You and your people have done nothing to bring such hatred upon yourselves. Me, and mine…” he frowned, tightening his hands on the reins. “We’ve played stupid games, and so we’re reaping stupid prizes.” He looked at Eagle Flies pointedly, mouth a severe line. “Don’t play stupid games, son.”

Eagle Flies gave him a long look, eyes scanning over the exhaustion and grief plaguing Hosea’s frame, bending it downwards. Slowly, he nodded.

About fifteen minutes later, they came upon a meadow full of wild, grazing horses. The two men effortlessly circled around the herd, slowly and carefully driving them through the forest and over the rough terrain until they reached a trail, which they followed northwards until an opening appeared in the rock. They swiftly funneled the horses into the ravine and continued driving them until they were on the other side, revealing an old, half-decomposed ranch overtaken by nature. The pasture was already full of about thirteen horses thanks to Arthur and Charles, who sprang apart at their approach from where they were sitting closely on the old weathered fence. Together, they quickly worked to open the gate and help Hosea and Eagle Flies herd the horses in. Once the last horse was through, Arthur swung the gate shut and tied it with fresh rope. All twenty-seven horses wandered and frolicked around the pasture, investigating each other, grazing, or rolling around in the grass.

Eagle Flies dismounted from his Tennessee Walker and moved closer to Charles and Arthur, stroking his horse’s head. Hosea followed close behind, leading Silver Dollar. The young man looked at the three of them and lifted his chin, expression softening. “Thank you, all of you. My tribe may outmaneuver Favours yet.”

Charles smiled slightly. “Maybe next time we can work _with_ your father. The two of you working together can achieve great things.”

Eagle Flies snorted. “...Maybe.” He turned to Hosea and tried to hand back the reins, but Hosea shook his head and held up his hand again. 

“Keep him,” Hosea said, offering a tired grin. “A gift from us.” Eagle Flies’s mouth ticked up a millimeter. With a single nod of thanks, he mounted up on the stallion again. “And remember - play smart, not angry.”

Eagle Flies nodded at the three of them. “May you and the others you care for be well.” With one last wave, the young man turned his horse and galloped off, leaving Charles and Arthur to clap Hosea on the back. Hosea returned the gesture to them both, and the three shared warm, tired smiles.

As they mounted up and turned towards home, a wave of peace washed over Hosea that eased away the feeling of being timed, though the brick of lead in his stomach remained. 

\--

Back on the homestead, everyone was still fervently working on expanding their skills. As Hosea hitched Silver Dollar in front of the house and fed him a carrot, he spotted Sadie and Molly in the distance, circling around a straw-stuffed burlap sack tied to a wooden post. Mrs. Adler was speaking low and intensely to Miss O’Shea, her voice a determined and goading snarl, and her gravelly cry of _“Show him what fucking you’re made of!”_ was overtaken by Molly’s battle scream as the Irishwoman threw herself upon the dummy and swiftly began eviscerating it with a hunting knife. Hosea smiled fondly as he made his way over to Pearson’s stew cauldron, and was scooping himself a bowl when he saw Arthur walking towards the pasture carrying a hay-bale.

“Aren’t you going to eat?” Hosea called out to the boy.

“Not hungry!” Arthur called back, picking up his pace. Hosea scowled and started striding after him, but quickly gave up when almost half his stew sloshed out. With a resigned growl, he downed the remains of his lunch and wrinkled his nose at the taste. _Someone_ had hunted piss-poor game recently, and when he heard a suspiciously metal-sounding _clink_ when he bit down on something and felt something sharp poke his tongue, he discreetly slinked off to spit out his mouthful and dump out the rest of his bowl. Perhaps Arthur’s aversion to the stew was… understandable.

Hosea stalked over to the wash-tub behind Pearson’s wagon and dumped his bowl and spoon into the mess with the others. He circled around to the front where Pearson was squinting furiously at a disorganized mess of canned goods, and the man jumped when Hosea snapped, “Who the hell is teaching these fools how to hunt? That was disgusting!”

Pearson turned to Hosea and sighed, nodding in agreement and leaning back against the wagon to stare morosely up at the sky. Hosea perched himself on top of the table, drawing up a leg and planting his boot beside him so he could rest his elbow on his knee. Pearson started to object, but Hosea gave him a wry smirk, making whatever complaint the Navyman was about to summon die in his mouth. Instead, Pearson crossed his arms and griped, “Well I ain’t the one huntin’ the game! I can only cook what these fools give me!”

Hosea tutted. “Maybe if _you_ were out there hunting we’d be in a better position. Let the others take up the role of camp cook! We could have it on rotation!”

Pearson wrinkled his nose. “May I _remind you_ , Hosea, that _you_ were the one who suggested all our greenhorns should be out and about hunting. And besides, can you imagine Bill’s food? Or _Uncle’s?_ ” Both men shuddered and made fake gagging noises, only to look at each other and bust up laughing.

Hosea shook his head and began swinging his leg that was dangling off the table, summoning a put-upon pout. “Well what else am I supposed to do to ensure none of these cretins die of scurvy, poison, malnutrition or starvation in the middle of bountiful wilderness, Simon?!” he said mournfully, and was able to hold a straight face for approximately three seconds before they both cracked up again.

Eventually, as their laughter died down again, Pearson came over and leaned back against the table beside Hosea, sighing. “I’ve been thinking a lot recently about that ranch we’re gonna get in Alberta,” Pearson mused quietly. “Back when we were in California, when Dutch got that lead, I was so sure we were gonna make it then. That that was it.” His expression fell. “...Did he ever tell you why he never made the deal on the land?”

Hosea’s hands slowly tightened around his knee and the rim of the table, white-knuckled. A flurry of spite and anger bubbled up to the surface towards Pearson for bringing up Dutch, for ruining a moment that Hosea almost could have pretended was fine, but he knew the man didn’t deserve it. It wasn’t fair for Hosea to be the only one allowed to grieve or try and make sense of the fool, and it was only natural that others would seek him out for comfort, as not only their but also Dutch’s oldest friend. He turned his head away before Pearson could see any resentment in his eyes, doing his best to quash it down. He took a deep breath to steady himself. 

“He… didn’t say much about it,” he said quietly. “Believe me, I tried to wring it out of him, but all he’d really tell me was that something felt off. That something felt like a trap, that we were in danger and had to get the hell out of California. I pressed him for evidence or a single rational thought that could justify it, but… He... “ Slowly, Hosea eased his second leg back down to join its twin, swinging back and forth like a pair of pendulums. “He told me a bunch of… disjointed things. Was real jumpy. Always looking over his shoulder. Thought everyone outside the gang was a possible informant. I called him crazy, but he begged me to believe him, to trust him, and I…” his voice trailed off as he remembered the fog clouding his best friend’s eyes, the dark circles underneath them. The way his voice got dangerously quiet when he said _Are you doubting me?_ He scrubbed a hand over his face and finished, “I believed him.”

Pearson huffed, and when Hosea looked over the man’s face was scrunched up in pain. “Damn. Where the hell was that in Blackwater? ...Maybe he was wrong about that ranch.”

“He wasn’t wrong about the Lemoyne National _Bank_ ,” Hosea answered coldly, voice too sharp and too full of hate. Pearson flinched and took a half-step away, looking at Hosea with wide, sorrowful eyes. Despite the coiled violence stored up in Hosea’s frame, Pearson stepped close again and put his hands on the tense rods of Hosea’s shoulders, squeezing reassuringly. He knew it wasn’t directed at him. Knew that the violence was directed inward.

After a long and heavy silence, Pearson asked, easy as anything, “What’s your favorite food?”

Hosea blinked at him in surprise. “My… favorite food?”

Pearson nodded. “In our ranch in Alberta, with a good quality herd of cattle, making us some money, I’ll have access to some prime quality beef. A real kitchen. We can bring in all kinds of foods, have a vegetable and herb garden…” He made a rapturous noise and brought his hand up in a chef’s kiss. “The _things_ I could create. God _damn_.”

Hosea smiled despite himself. “I… I do love me some good chili.”

Pearson made a guttural noise and clapped his hands in excitement. “Augh! Chili! Fuck!” He clenched a passionate fist. “The _chili_ I could make. Real, proper chili - a _man’s_ chili! No more goddamned poor man’s stew!”

Hosea crossed his legs and swallowed back the nausea threatening to overtake him to smirk. “We’ll see if you ever get to make chili again, once the others get a taste of _my_ chili.”

Pearson respectfully waved him off. “I can respect a man being territorial over his chosen dish. Besides, I can still go to town making the perfect beef brisket, meatloaf, ruben sandwiches, shepherd’s pies-”

Hosea made a wanton noise and dreamily stared off into the middle distance. “Buttered mashed potatoes, peach cobbler, green bean casserole, _cheeseburgers-_ ”

Pearson’s knees began growing weak. “Chicken-fried steak with black pepper gravy, herbal meatballs, slow-cooked ribs with barbecue sauce, twice-baked potatoes loaded up with cheese and bacon and green onions and _bell peppers-_ ”

There was a faint gunshot in the distance, swiftly followed by the piercing sound of a woman’s scream. Everyone in the homestead froze and held their breath. A pin could drop in the middle of camp and all would be able to hear it.

Not a minute later, the frantic beat of horse hooves came tearing up the hill from the direction of the pasture. Hosea leapt off the table and joined Susan and Swanson in sprinting towards the fence, where they saw an ashen-faced Javier sprinting up the hill on Boaz with Mary-Beth clinging to his back and screaming bloody-murder, tears pouring down her face as blood streamed from her foot. “ _Help!_ ” he was screaming. “ _Help!_ She’s been shot!”

Hosea barked an order to Abigail to ready the couch in the house and boil a pail of water as Susan sprinted to the medical wagon to grab heavy alcohol and medical tonics and Swanson ran off to grab bandages and a clean pair of Mary-Beth’s clothes. Hosea yelled “By who?!” as he quickly opened the gate and let Boaz skid through before shutting it quickly.

“Herself,” Javier panted, jumping off the horse as Hosea rushed up. Together, the two men eased Mary-Beth off of Boaz - eliciting an ear-splitting scream - and carried her to the house, Javier at her shoulders murmuring a string of apologies as Hosea carried her legs, jaw clenched.

The following hours of the day were consumed with caring for Mary-Beth. Susan, Swanson, and Hosea worked furiously to cut her boot and stocking away, sterilize the mangled flesh where she’d shot off her right middle toe and half of her ring toe, and sternly coach the young woman to guzzle whiskey like her life depended on it. Arthur and John had to be called in to apologetically yet forcibly eject Javier, Karen, and Tilly from the house where they were whipping themselves and Mary-Beth into a panic, slamming the front door behind them so they could guard it and avoid the grizzly sights within. When Mary-Beth was finally in a drunken, panting haze, Swanson pinned her ankles to the couch while Hosea shoved his scarf between her teeth and positioned her to lean back against his chest, wrapping his hands around her wrists before squashing her against his front, arms binding her like a steel trap. 

Both men nodded at Susan and took turns narrating to her what was about to happen as Susan’s mouth thinned into a grim, apologetic frown. She clenched her hand around the girl’s foot and quickly cut off the remains of Mary-Beth’s ruined toe with a sterilized knife, making her buck and scream, fresh tears pouring down her cheeks. In the next second, Susan grabbed the stove-poker, its tip glowing red with heat, and pressed it against the wounds. Mary-Beth’s muffled scream shook the house and Swanson and Hosea had to redouble their efforts to hold the woman down, her muscles rippling and veins throbbing, almost kicking Swanson across the room and tearing Hosea’s arms out of their sockets before she finally blacked out.

All three camp elders panted for breath, hair wild and askew with strands hanging down in front of their faces, drenched almost in as much sweat as Mary-Beth. Gently, Hosea let go of her wrists and wiggled out from under her, easing her down onto the pillows and wincing at the harsh bruises his hands had made on her skin. Swanson staggered to the back of the couch and leaned on it, panting, yet summoned the energy to brush Mary-Beth’s hair from her face and mumble “Poor thing.”

Susan stuck the poker back into its holder next to the stove and smoothed out her skirt. “Thank you gentlemen. You stand relieved. I need to bathe the poor girl and change her clothes, so if you wouldn’t mind giving me the house and sending in Tilly?”

“Don’t mind at all,” Hosea waved her off, shaking his head and coughing into his sleeve. When the coughing elevated into hacking, Swanson came around the couch and took his arm to lead him to the door, rubbing his back.

The two exhausted men squeezed out of the front door and shut it behind them, only to be met with virtually the whole gang hovering outside the house. Hosea steadied himself on Swanson, who rubbed a helpful hand on his chest, combining with the mountain air to ease his lungs. After a single deep breath, Hosea swallowed, straightened, and met all of their long faces with laughter.

“She’s going to be fine!” he wheezed, coughing a last couple times into his collar. “Almost killed the poor Reverend and I. Forget guns, that girl can kill with her bare hands! She’ll be back with us in no time.” The air around them eased immediately, and virtually everyone made happy, satisfied noises and wandered off - save for Arthur, Karen, Tilly, and Javier. “Tilly, Miss Grimshaw needs your help in the house.”

The young woman nodded excitedly and hurried forward, swiftly followed by Karen - who was caught by Hosea’s outstretched arm. She made a frustrated noise and pouted at him. Hosea raised an eyebrow in return. “I need _you_ to run the camp while I’m gone. I’m gonna go try and find some ginseng and yarrow for her.”

Karen wilted, but nodded. “ _Fine_ , I s’pose… Ol’ Grimshaw will have to leave the house eventually, and that’s when I’ll snatch her up.”

“‘Atta’girl,” Hosea replied with a wink, and Karen stomped off towards the others. 

Swanson gently nudged Hosea. “Shouldn’t you rest, old friend? I mean, _I’m_ wrecked.” Arthur pointedly cleared his throat.

Hosea shook his head at both of them. “Nothing would be more relaxing for me right now than a gentle ride in the wilderness picking herbs. It revitalizes me. All you fools are draining.” He rubbed Swanson’s back and gave it a pointed pat. “Also, I’m not going through withdrawal. _You_ can have a lie down, friend, I’ll be fine.”

“Well… All right then,” Swanson nodded, squeezing Hosea’s arm with a warm smile before staggering off.

Hosea made his way over to Silver Dollar and fed him a peppermint, stroking his cheek. He heard Arthur’s heavy footsteps come up behind him, swiftly followed by the boy’s voice asking, “Is there anythin’ I can do to help?”

Hosea gave him a tired smile over his shoulder. “Check in with the others, see if they need anything or if there’s any loose ends that need to be tied up. You have no idea how much that helps.” Arthur’s expression softened and he nodded, gently hitting Hosea on the shoulder and walking off. “And if you haven’t eaten yet, eat something!” he called after him, but Arthur just waved him off, leaving Hosea to sigh.

With a grunt, he slung the reins over Silver Dollar’s neck and swung up into the saddle. He squeezed the stallion into turning around, only to be met with the sight of Javier on Boaz.

“I’m sorry,” Javier blurted. “I fucked up, it’s my fault, I take full responsibility, we were joking around and having fun and I should’ve corrected her but I didn’t ‘cause I thought it would be fine but it wasn’t and she misfired and-”

Hosea held up a hand. “Slow down, son.”

Javier sucked in a breath, held it, then let it out, sagging in his saddle and dropping his gaze. “Long story short, I feel like shit, and I’d like to help gather herbs for her.”

Hosea snorted. “Hell of a way to start a conversation.” With that, he turned Silver Dollar and started walking the stallion towards the forest. Javier watched him anxiously, then spurred Boaz to follow behind.

The two men rode out for about fifteen minutes, and when the homestead was no longer visible and Hosea still hadn’t rebuked him, Javier quietly ventured, “So… that’s it? You’re not going to say anything about it?”

Hosea shrugged, lazily looking around for the identifying berries or flowers of the plants he needed. “Well, what do you want? You want me to yell at you? Scold you? Hit you? Look up my services on the menu and let me know what you’d like to order.”

Javier made a frustrated noise. “Well, shit, _maybe!_ That’s what you normally do! You’re acting all-” he aggressively gestured “-weird!”

Hosea sagged further into the saddle, then made a pained noise and straightened to try and ease the nerve pain in his back. Silver Dollar warily slowed into a stop, looking back at him with a concerned huff, lipping at his boot. Hosea didn’t nudge the horse onwards, just looked up at the sky through the leaves, absently rubbing the stallion’s neck. Javier and Boaz stopped beside him. “I’m tired, son,” he said quietly.

He saw Javier straighten and draw into himself out of the corner of his eye. After a long silence, Javier awkwardly said, “I can… go back… if you want to be alone.”

Hosea thought about it. Mulled it over in his head, rolled the thought around, analyzed it, queued the words up on his tongue, dismissed them, queued them up again. Eventually, Javier began backing Boaz away, head ducked downwards, and the word that came out of Hosea’s mouth was an exhausted “Wait.”

Javier stilled.

After a deep breath, Hosea turned to fully look at him. “I reckon you must be tired, too, hm?”

Javier frowned at him and forced a corner of his mouth to tick upwards for a second. “Not as tired as you, jefe.”

Hosea genuinely chuckled at that, rubbing Silver Dollar’s neck again. “Thought I was ‘abuelito’?”

Javier’s expression dropped into something gravely serious. “I was joking around. You deserve more respect than that. You’re a great man, our leader. I know my place.”

Hosea scoffed. “Oh, quit sucking up,” he drawled.

“I’m _not_ ,” Javier pressed. “You should command respect. You _do_ command respect.”

Hosea looked at him and squinted. “And what about you?”

Javier blinked. “I command respect.”

“For who?”

Javier blinked again, brow furrowing. “For… me?”

“For what cause?”

“This gang,” Javier said without hesitation.

“Not a gang anymore,” Hosea quietly corrected. “So, for what cause?”

Javier clenched his jaw and rolled his shoulders back. “For this family.”

“Why?”

Javier glanced around. “Because… because…”

Hosea raised a critical eyebrow.

“... _because…_ fuck! Because I’ve dedicated my entire life to the ones I love?! Being a protector, being loyal… it is who I am. It’s the kind of man I want to _be_ . I gave up everything, lost everything, my family, friends, possessions, my country, my _identity_ to protect the ones I love in Mèxico, and I had the incredible grace to be found by Dutch and be taken in and loved as one of his own, _your own_ , and so now I live and die by _you!_ ”

“But what about _yourself_ , Javier?” Hosea countered, a hint of steel edging into his voice. “Take away everyone else, put you alone, and what kind of man are you?”

Javier’s expression grew pinched. “...Nothing. I... I-I’m nothing.”

The two men stared at each other for a long time, both of their eyes slowly growing wet. Eventually, Hosea took off his hat and rested his forearms on his saddle horn, looking around at the birds and squirrels in the trees, at a turtle making its way across the mulch in the distance. “You know… I defined my entire life… based on two people. My beloved wife Bessie, and dear old Dutch. It’s… my relation to them, I thought. _That’s_ who Hosea Matthews is. _They_ are everything I _am_. That’s what I thought.” A spider wove a cobweb in the nook of a tree branch, its thread reflecting the sun as it crawled down towards the horizon. “Then they both up and died on me. Now, the both of them are gone, but… I’m still here. And I don’t know who the fuck I am.”

Javier resituated himself in his saddle and pressed a knuckle between his eyes, biting his lip as his tears shimmered but refused to fall, holding back the note of a struck chord, of perfect understanding.

Hosea started toying with Silver Dollar’s mane absently in his fingers. “Before them, I wasn’t any kind of man I’d ever want near any of you folk. There’s a part of me that’s… that’s scared I’ll somehow revert back, but.” He sighed and shook his head. “Being a man is about _choices_ , son. Choices we make for _ourselves_. Not that we let other people make, or copy from others. To be a man is to be able to exist among yourself and be at peace with who you are. I haven’t quite figured out how to do that yet, but… heh. I’ll let you know when I do.” He met Javier’s eyes again. “You have a good heart, Javier. You should use it to build a good man. You do that for yourself, it’ll be the best gift you could give me and this family. Maybe you can even show me how.”

Javier chuckled slightly and looked away from Hosea, rubbing at Boaz’s neck as a soft smile played on his face. He glanced back over and shook his head, all tension gone from his shoulders. “You’re a good man without Dutch, Hosea. Have been the whole time I’ve known you without Bessie, too. ...I hope you see that.”

Hosea grinned and crooned “Oh, now, you are _very_ sweet.” He reached over and bopped Javier’s bowler hat over his eyes, adding a quiet, “mijo.”

Javier fixed his hat with a huff of laughter and looked at Hosea with a look of light shock that slowly morphed into a beaming smile. “Te quiero tambièn, _papá._ ” 

Hosea shook his head with a smirk and nudged Silver Dollar into a walk again, Javier and Boaz following along, feeling warm and light. “Now, then… what the _FUCK_ were you doing letting her wave that thing around with the hammer cocked?!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **1\. Dutch van der Linde's Last Stand**  
>  **2\. Escape from Saint Denis**  
>  **3\. Escape from Lemoyne**  
>  **4\. The Letter**  
>  **5\. Reunions**  
>  **6\. Unfinished Business**  
>  **7\. I Know You**  
>  8\. Dreams, Omens, and Other Harbingers


	8. Dreams, Omens, and Other Harbingers

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warning** for **unreality(?)** related to dreams; intense, graphic depictions of **self-harm ideation** ; **self-harm aftermath** ; **internalized ableism** and **ableist language** ; references to **transphobia** and **intersexism** ; references to **racism and police brutality** ; **child-death** and **miscarriage** ; and **suicidal ideation.** (Edit: In the spirit of integrity, especially because this fic goes to some pretty ugly places: I'm a white autistic queer trans demi-man with PTSD who suffered a psychotic episode, and can only truly pull from my own personal experiences as part of those demographics. That said, it's really important to me to write diverse fiction. If I ever, at any point, _ever,_ write something that is harmful to your demographic that I'm not a part of, please feel comfy commenting and telling me what it was and how I could change it. I write for catharsis and out of love for these fictional worlds, and I want everyone reading to feel safe and have a good time ♥)
> 
> I should probably start this off by saying... the number of chapters increased again, because I yet again cut this chapter into parts. It was growing a bit Too Big, and I didn't want to feel pressured to condense things because - well. I wrestle with some really heavy and emotional things in this work, and that's especially true with the next chapter, and it's really important to me to let the pacing come naturally. As it turns out, the pacing of this fic is coming out to be about as slow as the pacing of the game itself, which I suppose is fair. Consequently, I highly doubt the number of chapters is going to stop at fifteen as I'll probably continue to slice and dice the narrative bricks that make up my outline. I'm hoping this also makes reading a bit more accessible.
> 
> Secondly, this chapter officially marks the beginning of The Great Queerening of this fic, haha. I tried to open a flood-gate to turn all the implied queer references into more explicit ones, but then the dam popped apart and _whoosh,_ here we are. I'm going to fully embrace it and pour all my love into it, just as I have all the other themes I've introduced in this work. I should probably also come out and say that the way I'm writing Dutch and Hosea's relationship at this point is... going to be _very explicitly_ queerplatonic, if it hasn't been already (as many of you have caught on to). That said, I'm still super happy for folk to read any amount of romance into them as well, it's perfectly welcome! And as for sexual history between them... I... am leaning towards... yes. It just hasn't, y'know, [hand gestures] _come up,_ because this is still - loudly and proudly - a Familial Platonic Love Fic. But if it does ever come up naturally, I'd like to do so - especially as a healthy and loving juxtaposition to all the sexual assault in RDR's world, and because Hosea's not too keen on poking his head into other gang members' business to ask if they want juice or a condom.
> 
> My final note is that I have shamelessly retconned Hosea's Narrative Morality Animal^TM from a golden eagle to a silver fox, and I've edited chapter 1 to reflect that. I first published this fic before I really interacted with fandom at all, but now that I have, I'm like - damn. Y'all are so right. I even looked up fox symbolism of various cultures, and the fox symbolizes cleverness, wisdom, "sass and class," longevity, protection from evil, and is often seen as both a guide and a trickster. [Lovingly gestures at Hosea] There he is.

_Slowly, he walked back towards the log cabin from where he’d just set Silver Dollar out to pasture, opening the door to the welcoming warmth and scents of the house - the scents of burning cedar wood, of old soap, and of various members of the gang. Mary-Beth lay asleep on the couch, using Karen as a mattress, both girls dreaming fitfully with their arms wrapped around each other. He walked past the second bedroom and peeked in, smiling at the scene of Jack sandwiched in between John and Abigail, curled around him like a pair of parenthesis, as all three slept open-mouthed and drooling. With a silent chuckle, Hosea moved further down the hall._

_He opened his bedroom door and stepped through into another hallway - one made of darker wood, with fancy paintings and metal carvings adorning the walls, an ornate carpet leading him to a distant door, flanked by candelabra. Hosea followed it, casually shrugging off his coat and chuckling at himself for wearing such an inappropriate outfit for the high rolling and high temperatures of La Bastille Saloon._

_He opened the door to his dark hotel room and saw the curtains drawn back with the balcony doors open, letting the lights and music of Saint Denis gently filter in. A figure in a fine suit was standing in the dark room with his back turned to him, his black curly hair pulled back and tamed tightly with pomade. Hosea’s heart skipped a beat._

_“Dutch…?” he breathed, tossing his coat aside onto the bed. An incredulous, breathy laugh escaped from his chest. He had no idea why exactly he was so happy to see Dutch - had no idea why he was even there or what he’d been doing - but he was filled with an all-encompassing need to rush forward and embrace the man._

_“Dutch!” Hosea laughed, pushing himself forward with a skip in his step, reaching out towards his partner. In an instant, his blood seemed to flash into ice, making his steps grind to a halt. His fingers curled back from where they’d been outstretched, feeling an eerily familiar hum in the air, like it was full of static electricity. The shadows seemed darker, somehow, making the edges of the room shift and elongate outwards. “Dutch?” he asked again, quiet, nervous._

_Dutch turned around, and Hosea recoiled in horror at the sight of his half-decomposed corpse and the cold void of his milky eyes. His jaw slid downwards and a diamondback rattlesnake slithered out of his mouth and onto the floor, where it hissed and rattled at Hosea, opening its mouth to show off its fangs. It suddenly began slithering towards him, its tiny, beady, hazel eyes boring into him. Hosea screamed and staggered backwards, scrambling for the door, but the door was gone, replaced only with smooth wall. Hosea whirled around to face the snake, which coiled up, ready to strike, rattle reaching a fever pitch as Dutch’s corpse in the background dissolved into a swarm of locusts. The last thing Hosea heard before the rattlesnake lunged was a woman’s voice reverberating through the walls and out of the shadows._

**Ş̯̜̙̓̽̏̀̚͜ͅn̡͕̼̦͔̩̜̒̇͊͡a̵͓̘̙̰͕̬͊͊̎̽̕̚k̷̢̧̧͙͎͈̥̳̭̎̏̏̐̌̿͛̈͘͡e̺̜̞͎͆͗͆̍̌͢͡.̭̻̜͓̭̋̍̇̌͑ͅ**

Hosea bolted upright with a strangled cry and scrambled back against the headboard, making it knock against the wall with a harsh _thunk_. He threw the quilt off and pulled his knees to his chest, hyperventilating, looking frantically around the room to figure out where the hell he was.

Moonlight gently filtered through the white lace curtains of his and Bessie’s bedroom, and Hosea looked at his reflection in the mirror of her vanity, taking in his pale and sweat-drenched form. He kept moving his eyes all around the room, taking in their dresser, their night-stand - the flower vase sporting a freshly-picked Iris courtesy of Abigail - and the lines of Dutch’s things against the walls. He searched the shadows for threats, but found none. Only the image of Dutch’s corpse every time he closed his eyelids.

A wave of nausea washed over him, and he quickly scrambled out of bed and threw open the bedroom window, relishing the pain as the cold night air hit his skin and filled his lungs. He dry-heaved once, twice, then slid down to the floor and pressed his palms to his eyes, still hyperventilating and shaking.

For a moment he wanted to leave the room and search for Dutch, and in the next moment, he hatefully cursed the thought, but it was already too late. 

Neither he nor Dutch were strangers to nightmares. In the early years, before they’d found Arthur, as they were rapidly falling into each other’s orbit and becoming dependent, there would be nights where one or the other of them would have a nightmare about the other dying - especially after particularly rough jobs or close calls. They came in the form of Hosea bolting awake, hand flashing down to clench into Dutch’s side, only to get almost punched or elbowed in the face for seizing a sleeping outlaw - or in the form of Hosea drifting awake to the sound of hyperventilating gasps and the feeling of Dutch’s stiff and shivering form pushed flush against his side, fists clenched in the fabric of his shirt so harshly they were almost tearing the fabric, eyes wide and glassed over. Each bad dream could always be vanquished by the sound of the other's heartbeat as they took each other into their arms.

The addition of Arthur into their lives eased some of that codependecy by broadening their horizons beyond just each other. Suddenly, they had a _son_ who needed comforting from nightmares, who needed them to share their hearts. Dutch must have gotten a fix for it, because four years later Susan Grimshaw entered their lives on Dutch's arm, and suddenly Hosea was sleeping alone, forced to endure cold nights and nightmares without the warmth of Dutch in his bed, even after Dutch and Susan broke things off. At least, until Bessie came into his life. Hosea fell deeply, madly in love with her, and on bad nights Hosea would swiftly find himself in her arms, always unwinding so easily to the sound of her deep, gravelly alto and the feeling of her hands running through his hair. He’d caught Dutch peering out of his tent at them with narrowed eyes more than once, but that particular petty behavior vanished when he and Annabelle clicked like long-lost puzzle pieces. The woman wasn’t the coddling sort - to Dutch’s delight - but she lovingly distracted Dutch from bad nights by goading him into a discussion of philosophy or whisking him away into the woods to throw knives with her or through more… carnal methods.

Then, of course, came the desperate, dark years after they each lost their respective partners. Hosea would so frequently wake alone in his tent, moved from where he’d drunkenly passed out, to bawl his eyes out at some horrific machination of his mind. Arthur or Tilly would try and sit with him, Susan would bring him tea, and Annabelle would bring him an extra blanket all while Dutch was nowhere to be seen. But... there were some nights - some sweet, precious nights where Dutch would slip in through the tent flaps and lay down beside him, gathering him into his arms and murmuring soft strings of comforting phrases into his hair, his chest rumbling as he said, “ _Shh, I’ve got you, I’ve got you. I’m right here, old friend, I’m right here. Oh, my poor Hosea, I know, I know”_ \- not guilt-tripping him or tearing him down or trying to force him into things he wasn't ready for, just… _being there._

Then, only a year later, he and Dutch had waded through a sea of dead O’Driscolls and opened that barn door to find Annabelle’s mutilated corpse hanging from the rafters. Dutch had just… plum refused to sleep, shooting himself directly into a pit of terrifying, destructive behavior for both himself and their last surviving family. It was the entire reason why Hosea finally stopped trying to drink himself to death to follow after Bessie and their baby, lest Dutch burn himself up like a barrel of oil and take them all down with him. For sixteen months, Hosea stayed at Dutch's side, day in and day out, holding the shattered shards of his best friend's psyche together while juggling alcohol withdrawal alongside controlling Dutch's psychotic symptoms, trying desperately to pull him down from his roaring paranoid delusions or haul him up from the yawning void of his depression. Without a thought, Hosea waded himself back into the thick of planning out jobs and scores, running and gunning and killing once more in the desperate hope of keeping Dutch from snapping under the weight of feeling like he had to guide their family alone in a funhouse mirror world where threats were around every corner.

The nights were always the hardest - when everything went quiet and neither of them had anything to distract themselves with anymore, left only to stare at each other from their respective spots across the tent. Hosea’s skin crawled at the fuzzy, patchy memories of what Dutch did and said to him in the year after Bessie’s death. He’d cringed away from his touch more than once in the sharp clarity of sobriety. Only now, it was _Dutch_ who was putty in _his_ hands, raw and open and vulnerable, completely at his mercy. 

He would never forget the night Dutch slowly lifted his head from his hands and looked at him, really _looked_ at him, tears forming in his eyes as he said, voice soft and quiet as his near-nonexistent empathy finally formed a bridge between them now that their positions were reversed: _“I… am a goddamn fool, and God, Hosea. I’m so sorry.”_

After three hours of talking things out, Hosea made sure the tent flaps were cinched tightly shut, crawled into Dutch’s bed roll, laid the man’s head on his chest over his heartbeat, secured him with a leg slung over his hips, and slipped away into sleep with his best friend. When Dutch inevitably jerked awake with a choked-off scream, Hosea soothed him to sleep again with the sound of his voice, retelling stories of their fondest, safest memories while tracing his hairline and eyebrows and ears with gentle fingers.

Any progress they’d made with weaning themselves off their codependency was shot to hell when they both emerged from those two hellish years, but Dutch was back on his feet and independent albeit with permanently worse symptoms, they’d mended the marred shards and broken trust of their relationship, and Hosea was able to go back to his own tent with a new sense of purpose to try and find and define himself. The nightmares still came for the both of them, of losing each other or Bessie or Annabelle or otherwise, but they each knew that the only thing they needed to do was politely poke their head into the other’s tent and gently touch their shoulder with a pleading look to be warmly embraced. They didn’t even need words anymore, communicating everything they needed with tired stares and wary hands, slipping into sleep again in the old familiar comfort of each other’s arms, their lips in each other's hair.

Hosea blinked himself back to the present, tears slipping down his cheeks, and shuddered. Every part of him, body and soul, wanted nothing more than to make a beeline for Dutch and do just that - touch Dutch’s shoulder, watch as the man snorted awake and saw his tears, expression growing soft and knowing, before silently scooting over to make space for him, ensconcing him in strong arms and legs the second he settled. The problem was, of course, that that was impossible. Never would be possible. Not ever again, because this time, the nightmare was real, and Hosea was living it. Maybe not the snake bits, but the point still stood.

His gaze slowly drifted to the door, his brain slogging its way through a list of the entire gang. He didn’t feel comfortable going to any of them. For Arthur, John, and Tilly, it wouldn’t be fair on them - _he_ needed to be _their_ pillar, not the other way around. He couldn’t imagine going to Mary-Beth, Karen, Abigail, Lenny, Bill, or Javier either for similar reasons. The thought of going to Molly or Susan made him grimace. Same with Uncle and Strauss. Pearson had a good heart, but couldn’t offer emotional comfort to save his life. Charles and Sadie were good people, but Hosea knew neither of them well enough to seek out their comfort, and neither of them deserved the burden of piecing him back together. That left only Orville Swanson, and Hosea truly could imagine seeking the Reverend out, but the man was going through withdrawal, and Hosea had already been on the other side of that particular hell. He wouldn’t subject his friend to piecing him back together as he was fighting to do the same with himself.

He truly had no one.

 _And whose fault is that?_ hissed the same wretched part of himself that eternally chanted _It’s all your fault_ in the background of his mind like a war drum, spreading down his body like an itch. _No Dutch, no Bessie. Your child, your plan. You deserve to be alone. You deserve to be hurt. Stupid. Worthless. Murderer._

His eyes slipped of their own accord to his hunting knife where it lay on the night-stand. He watched, passively, as his hand reached out and pulled it from its sheath, turned it, the engraved blade reflecting the moonlight.

_Useless. Failure. What good are you? You’re a killer. You’re a monster. You don’t deserve any of them. Never have. Never will. You only hurt them._

The blade began shaking, a hostage of his hand.

_You deserve to be hurt._

His brain supplied a memory of barging through Dutch’s closed tent flap only to see the man drop a red-lined knife and try to hide it under his boot, desperately yanking his shirt-sleeve down over his arm, eyes wide and mortified and wet.

Hosea slammed the knife down and stabbed it through the floorboards with a choked sob.

“Oh, Dutch…” Hosea whimpered, voice quiet and broken. Slowly, he reached into a crate and dragged out one of the man’s last still-intact shirts, pressing it to his face again and inhaling the other man’s scent, a soft, exhausted sob escaping his throat. If he closed his eyes, he could almost pretend it was really him, that it was Dutch’s chest that Hosea’s face was pressed against instead of his own palm. With a sigh, Hosea shrugged the shirt on over his own shoulders, pulling it close around his front and tucking his nose into the collar. He reached out for his satchel and pulled it into his lap, taking out Dutch’s letter to read and reread until the sound of Dutch’s voice in his head drowned out the scratching whispers slithering across his skin, until it summoned all the frantic words he himself had breathed at the man as he cleaned and bandaged that arm. Twisted them around so that it was Dutch’s voice saying them instead of his own.

_You don’t deserve to be hurt, you idiot. Sometimes we make mistakes, sometimes we make shitty choices, sometimes it’s just the random chaos of the world. It’s done, it happened, it’s in the past. Ain’t no use in punishing yourself, you hear? Hurting yourself won’t change anything. So you can send those voices in your fool head a message from me that they’re wrong and should shut the fuck up. God. Just… do your best. That’s all she or I or those kids could ever ask for._

With a low, uneasy noise, Hosea plucked the knife out of the floor and shoved it back in its sheath, pushed himself up onto his feet, tucked the letter into Dutch’s shirt pocket, and grabbed a clean pair of jeans to haul on over his hips. He buttoned up Dutch’s shirt and tucked it into his pants. The fact that he was lightly swimming in the button-up coaxed out a weak, lopsided grin. Finally, he grabbed his gun-belt and fastened it around his hips, tucking Dutch’s Schofields into each holster. 

After haphazardly fastening Dutch’s handkerchief around his neck, he cautiously opened his bedroom door and padded barefoot down the dark hallway towards the kitchen. He peeked briefly into Abigail, Jack, and John’s room to make sure they were all right - grinned again at Jack sleeping spread-eagle and diagonal between them with his butt on John’s face - then hovered close to Karen and Mary-Beth where they were both sleeping on the floor and the couch, respectively, hands held loosely together. Karen was snoring away, but Mary-Beth’s face was tight and pinched and pale, beads of sweat running down her temple, breaths coming up short.

With a small sigh, Hosea moved away into the kitchen, throwing more wood into the stove and stoking the fire with the poker before shutting and locking the door. He quietly gathered his tea supplies, frowned at his empty chamomile stock, checked all the other boxes and scowled at them all being empty. Nose-wrinkling, he swapped out the tea supplies for coffee. After making himself a mug, he blew on it for a spell, eyes assessing the blood-stained bandage of Mary-Beth’s foot, the dirty rag and the stale water in the bowl by her head. He idly wished he had his pocket-watch on him, but the sheer darkness of the night outside told him all he needed to know - it was ass o’clock in the morning.

Downing his coffee like a shot and gulping it down, Hosea set his mug on the kitchen table and grabbed the bowl, then did his best to leave quietly out the front door to dump it out and fill it up with fresh water from the well pump, tossing the rag in with the rest of the gang’s dirty laundry. He carried the bowl back inside and shut the door behind him, and when he set the bowl down on the little table beside Mary-Beth’s head, she blinked exhaustedly up at him and asked, voice weak and shaky, “Hosea?”

“It’s me,” he confirmed in a whisper, brushing her sweat-damp hair from her face and pressing the back of his hand to her forehead. He frowned at the slight touch of fever. “Just changing out your water and your bandages. I’ll be right back.”

Mary-Beth made some kind of unintelligible, stressed sound, and Hosea hurried to grab a clean rag and bandage roll from the washing area. When he came back, Karen was blinking blearily awake and looking around. “‘Sea?” she croaked.

“Asleep on the job, Miss Jones?” he teased, dipping the rag in the cool water before wringing it out and dabbing it across Mary-Beth’s forehead. Karen suddenly jerked, making Mary-Beth jolt with a whimper, and scrambled to stand up.

“Shit, fuck, sorry M’Beth, fuck-”

Hosea waved his hand at her. “Relax. You’re not in trouble.”

“Yeah,” Mary-Beth breathed airily. “What he… said.”

Karen dusted her clothes off and frowned at them both, a sleepy slur still in her words. “I _promised_ ya though, Mary-Beth. I promised I’d stay up all night whitchu.”

“Y’re… ‘kay!”

Karen moved over to her foot and began reaching out for the old bandage, saying, “Here, lemme change y-”

“ _No!_ ” Mary-Beth suddenly shrieked, making Karen jump and stumble back. “Don’t!”

Karen looked like a kicked puppy. “Well shit, sorry…”

Hosea looked rapidly between them both, the rag stilling on Mary-Beth’s forehead as he furrowed his brow. He looked down at Mary-Beth and frowned. “Is there something wrong with it?” He paused. “Well, more wrong?”

Mary-Beth shook her head, looking apologetically at Karen. “I just.. Just… don’t wantcha to see it…”

Karen scoffed. “You ‘fraid I’m squeamish, girl? I’ve seen plenty worse!” She started reaching out for the bandage again. “Now c’mo-”

“ _No!_ ” Mary-Beth whined again, retracting her leg. “I want Hosea to do it!”

Karen and Hosea both shared an awkward look. Karen cleared her throat and shuffled her feet before venturing, “Um… wouldja like me to… hold yer hand or somethin’?”

“No,” Mary-Beth said curtly, her eyes watering. “I don’t want you in here to see it at all.”

Karen turned her head away and stayed silent for a long moment. “Well fine then,” she said, voice small and quiet. “I’ll just be outside.” And with that, she strode out the front door, almost slamming it, then catching it and closing it with a sharp click.

A tiny sob escaped Mary-Beth’s throat, and Hosea unleashed a long, drawn out sigh as he moved the chair around to Mary-Beth’s feet. “Now, why do I feel like I’ve just walked into the middle of something?”

Mary-Beth’s bottom lip quivered. “I just don’t want her to see it.”

Hosea shuffled over to the cabinets and grabbed a bottle of whiskey along with a flask of the special tonic he made for her. He turned around and moved back over to her side, holding out the bottle of whiskey. “Would you like a few swigs for the pain?”

Mary-Beth frowned at it with big, sorrowful eyes, shaking her head. “No thank you.”

Hosea raised an eyebrow. “Any particular reason?”

“Karen’s tryin’ to stop drinkin’, and I wanna help. If she smells it on my breath...”

Hosea took a moment to bite his lip and still his expression against the amusement that wanted to slip out. “And you, Miss Gaskill, are willing to endure severe pain… for the _convenience_ of your… friend?”

Mary-Beth nodded, resolute. “She’s tryin’ so hard, Hosea… When she started drinkin’ after Sean died, I got so scared.” She sniffled. “I thought we were gonna lose her.”

Hosea smiled, bittersweet. He gently held out the tonic flask to her instead. “Well then, here. This should help just as well.” Mary-Beth took it gratefully and chugged it as Hosea returned the whiskey. After shutting the cabinet, he lazily made his way back over to the couch and sat down in the chair beside Mary-Beth’s bandaged foot.

“Now,” Hosea sighed, “what’s this that you don’t want Karen to see?”

“Well you already seen it,” Mary-Beth mumbled, refusing to meet his eyes.

“Then tell me this - what’s so bad about it?”

Mary-Beth heaved a distraught sigh and shoved her face into her pillow. “It’s ugly.”

Hosea crossed his legs and leaned back in the chair. “It may look pretty raw for a while, but it’ll heal and scar up, then you’ll be right as rain.”

“ _No_ ,” Mary-Beth whined, “you ain’t getting it… _I’m_ ugly…”

Hosea did a double-take. “ _How?_ ”

Mary-Beth snapped her head towards him and fixed him with a look fit for the village idiot. “My _foot!_ It’s _maimed!_ I’m a _cripple!_ A _gimp!_ ”

Hosea took in a deep breath and pinched the bridge of his nose, uncrossing his legs and straightening his spine before shooting the same look right back at her. “And _why_ , pray tell, are any of those things _bad?_ ”

“Because i-it, it…” Mary-Beth weakly wiped away tears as they fell down her cheeks. “Ain’t no one ever gonna want me now. No one’s ever gonna think I’m pretty, or take me seriously. I-I’m… I’m broken. People are just gonna pity me.”

Hosea sighed, stood up, and moved the chair over near her face, where he sat down and leaned forward onto his knees, hands casually clasped in front of him. “You ain’t _broken_ , you fool girl. I know it’s scary, and it’s different. You’ll probably walk with a limp after it’s all healed up, but you’re still the same bright, beautiful, smart, clever girl with her books and writers’ hands. Who wouldn’t want that? You’re pretty as you ever were.”

Mary-Beth huffed, her hands playing at the fabric of her nightgown. “Hosea, you’re like my Daddy, your thoughts don’t count. No man is ever gonna want a girl with a maimed foot.” Her expression fell even further and a fresh wave of tears escaped. “‘Cept maybe Kieran,” she whispered.

Hosea sighed softly at the name. “That boy was one of a kind. But men who’d love a woman who ain’t shaped ‘normal’? Not so. And what about Karen?”

“Karen?!” Mary-Beth said quickly, a flush crawling up her cheeks. She hugged her arms to herself and looked away. 

Hosea bit back a grin. “Yes, Karen. She means it when she says she’s seen worse. She won’t think any less of you.”

“It ain’t her thinking less of me I’m afraid of,” Mary-Beth said tentatively, softly, so quiet Hosea almost couldn’t hear her. “I’m afraid she’ll never think… more of me.”

Hosea’s eyebrow slowly drifted upwards towards his hair like a hot air balloon. “Explain.”

The blush in Mary-Beth’s face climbed higher. She flicked her eyes over to Hosea’s, breaths coming in panicked pants. Hosea picked up the rag, wrung it out, and smoothed it over her forehead again, using his free hand to rest it over one of hers. Gently, he promised, “There’s nothing you could tell me that would make me think any less of you, Mary-Beth.”

Mary-Beth slowly relaxed and nodded, her eyelids drifting closed, breaths coming slower at the caress of the rag on her forehead. “Karen’s so… beautiful,” she said softly. “Her body’s beautiful and so is her soul. And she’s also smart, and funny, and powerful, and… a-and ferocious, like a storm.” She giggled weakly. “She can ride a horse and shoot a gun and drink with the boys and roughhouse with ‘em, all in a skirt. She’s incredible. But… I-I’m not. I’m real shy, and I just… I just pickpocket and nip things off of shelves, and I read and write, and daydream, and that’s about it. I try and use a gun like her and I shoot myself in the foot, and I worry she thinks I’m stupid, and that I’m just… a little sister to her. And I’m so scared that if she sees my foot, that… that pity is all there’ll ever be between us.” She sniffled. “‘Cause how could she ever desire me like this?”

Hosea gave her a soft, warm smile. “Well, first, thank you for sharing that with me,” he said gently. “And secondly… how much do you know about my Bessie?”

Mary-Beth blinked her eyes open and squinted in thought. “I… I know you loved her with all your heart?”

Hosea chuckled. “Very true. But there was something special and uniquely beautiful about her. Can you guess what it was?”

Mary-Beth thought for a moment, then ventured, “Was it… her eyes?”

“Nope. Well, of course they were unique and beautiful, better than the most precious jewels. But that’s not what I was thinking of.”

“Was it… her voice?”

Hosea’s smile grew softer. “Getting warmer. She had the most gorgeous voice - this deep, rich tone that’d wrap around you like the sound of cicadas in the summertime and settle through your bones like a cello chord.”

Mary-Beth giggled quietly at his descriptions, then shrugged. “I reckon I don’t know! What was the special something?”

Hosea leaned down and smiled conspiratorially. “Did you know she was raised as a boy?”

Mary-Beth’s eyes grew wide and her jaw dropped.

Hosea chuckled and continued, “Dear Bessie was born with both parts. The doctor had no idea what to make of her. Her parents ended up deciding to just raise her as a boy so she’d have more opportunities.” He shook his head. “She was bullied mercilessly for being so effeminate and always wanting to play with dolls and wear dresses. She always knew she was a girl, but if she’d ever voiced that… they’da killed her, child or not.” Mary-Beth gasped softly in horror. “Then she turned twelve and started having her monthlies and developing her bust, and, well - the whole ‘folk treating her as a boy’ thing didn’t work out so well no more. She was sent away to live with her aunt in the next town over, but everybody knew what she was. The towns weren’t big - a _hermaphrodite_ amongst them?” Hosea wrinkled his nose. “Couldn’t mind their own business.”

Mary-Beth blinked back tears. “They continued bullyin’ her, didn’t they?”

Hosea shook his head. “Some, but not all. Bessie was so full of kindness and light and forgiveness, not many folk could demean her. She was always so selfless, so giving - the most popular woman in town. Then, our little gang rolled in.” He huffed a laugh. “Dutch and I only had Arthur and Susan at that point, so we sure were a _fearsome_ bunch.” Mary-Beth giggled again. “Anyway, Dutch and I started working folk over, but Bessie was as clever as she was kind, so she rooted us out right quick. Cornered me in the middle of a crowded saloon and exposed me in front of everyone.”

Mary-Beth gasped and moved a hand to cover her mouth. “And then what happened?!”

Hosea smirked. “I bought her dinner. We got to talking, and I wondered, ‘How the hell has this woman not been snatched up yet?’ She had me hooked. I got us all stuck there for a month just so I could keep sneaking out to see her.”

“Sneaking out?” Mary-Beth wiggled slightly in excitement, wincing only a little from her foot. “Was your love a secret?”

“From Dutch,” Hosea said dryly, making a face. “And for good reason. She’d blown my cover and took me out of commission. Dutch and Susan were the only other ones even remotely capable of conning, so he and _Susan_ had to work together, after breaking things off no less, and I kept coming up with excuses as to why we couldn’t leave, which meant Arthur couldn’t do any robbing, and Arthur and Susan damn near gnawed his ears off outta boredom. He was angrier than a swarm of hornets. If he’d learned it was all over a woman…?”

“Well not just any woman,” Mary-Beth pressed. “Your one true love!”

Hosea snorted. “Dutch’s sympathies of romanticism didn’t include _me_. In any case, Bessie knew what I was doing, and for all her smarts, she couldn’t seem to figure out that I loved her. Thought I had some ulterior motive.” He shook his head. “One night, she took my hands and told me she refused to be a fetish or a fling and asked me what my intentions were. All the more fool her, ‘cause I kissed her and asked her to run away with me!”

Mary-Beth squealed and smiled. “And she said yes!”

“And she said yes,” Hosea chuckled. “She even convinced me to come clean to Dutch, too. I thought the man was going to pop his head clean off with how red and riled up he got, but then Bessie got to talking with him and got him laughing, and _that_ is what convinced me this was the woman I was going to marry.” Mary-Beth shed a few tears and cooed a soft _aww_. Hosea gazed off into the distance, slipping easily into the memories, honey-sweet and hug-warm. “She got everyone wrapped around her finger without even trying. Arthur just adored her, and she treated him with all the soft motherly tenderness he’d been missing in his life. Dutch and Susan were real sweet, too, going out of their way to call her ‘Ma’am’ and ‘Miss Bessie’ at every opportunity, talking about how wonderful it was to have another woman in camp. She never had that before. She got so comfortable with us there’d be times she’d even get lazy about shaving.” He lifted a hand to place two fingers over his mouth, fond. “She had the cutest giggle when I’d rub my nose through her whiskers.”

Mary-Beth squealed again, making Hosea clear his throat. “ _My point is_ ,” Hosea continued, dragging himself out of the memories full of warm fuzz and sunshine, “I didn’t love Bessie _despite_ her body. I loved _Bessie_ , and that included her body. And if anyone out there is deserving of you, Mary-Beth Gaskill, they’ll love _all_ of you, too. Otherwise, they ain’t worth your time.”

Mary-Beth oozed back into her pillow, her eyelids drifting downwards. “Thank you for sharin’ that story with me, Hosea. I woulda _loved_ meeting Bessie.”

Hosea’s smile softened as he squeezed Mary-Beth’s hand. “She would have loved meeting you, too.” He sighed, then set the rag on the bowl and moved to stand up. “Now, you ready for me to change that bandage of yours?”

Mary-Beth bit her lip and fiddled with her night-gown again. “Actually… could you… could you go get Karen and… tell her I want her to do it?”

A warm chuckle eased out of Hosea’s chest. “Of course.” He stood up, then, and took a few steps towards the front door.

“Hey Hosea…?” Mary-Beth’s small voice called after him. Hosea stopped and turned, looking at her analyzing, thoughtful expression. “Are you… wearing Dutch’s clothes?”

Hosea looked down at Dutch’s shirt, his handkerchief, his guns, and idly mused to himself that he’d end up wearing the man’s pants at this rate. He huffed a laugh. “I suppose I am.”

A sad smile graced Mary-Beth’s face, and her eyes sank downwards for a long moment before she said, “If Karen and I stay friends… I reckon… that don’t mean our relationship would be any less meaningful than a romantic one, huh?”

A warm feeling spread through Hosea’s chest, different from the warmth of remembering Bessie, and his hand drifted upwards to hold Dutch’s handkerchief. “No. I reckon it doesn’t,” he said softly.

Mary-Beth’s eyes twinkled. “Take care of yourself, Hosea.”

Hosea grinned. “You too, Mary-Beth.” And with that, he slipped out the door.

\--

The day continued on, and Hosea changed out of Dutch’s shirt into one of his own before the sun rose. After shrugging on his vest and coat and redoing the handkerchief into an ascot rather than a wild unkempt knot, he put on his socks and boots and hat and walked outside to seek out a second cup of coffee among the warm presence of the rest of the gang.

He spent the morning and better part of the afternoon rotating himself around a menagerie of stations, instructing folk on how to mend holes in clothes and leather and canvas, how to aim and fire a revolver quickly, how to identify poisonous plants from healthy ones, and - with Arthur gone - how to properly care for and ride horses. He had a truly unruly trio in Pearson, Molly, and Strauss, and he spent an hour just getting them to find horses they were compatible with. Tess ran Strauss screaming out of the pasture and over the fence, and every horse Pearson tried to approach seemed to walk away from him. He’d completely lost Molly at one point, and the three men had to call a time-out to fan out and look for her. Hosea found her at the bottom of a hill in the pasture near a small, trickling stream, braiding flowers into Jude’s mohawk from where the scarred horse was laying with her head in her lap, Molly talking softly to the horse in an Irish-accented stream of consciousness.

By the time he’d finally gotten Molly saddled up on Jude, Strauss on the calmest and most complacent Morgan, and Pearson on a Suffolk Punch who loved licking the top of his head, his lungs gave out on him and he was left hacking and gasping for breath on the fence of the round-pen. Sadie came over and slapped him on the back, almost knocking him into the dirt, and asked “Wouldja like me to take over?”

He nodded, still coughing into his sleeve, but he managed to smile when she turned to the group and fixed Pearson with a predatory grin, drawling, “Are you three little girls ready to learn how to ride while dodging _bullets?_ ”

With a halting, stilted walk, Hosea almost managed to make it to the folding chair near the main fire before the sciatic nerve pain that had been spearing through his lower back and down his leg for hours spiked and made him almost collapse. He jerked to a halt, swaying on his feet, trembling with pain and oxygen deprivation, feeling his pulse in his temples as the world started spinning-

“Whoa there!” Uncle guffawed, catching Hosea and easing him down to sit down on the ground, promptly sitting down himself and flopping his legs over Hosea’s to pin him there, wringing out a noise of disgust from in between his coughs. “Take it easy, old timer!”

“You’re-!” a cough “-only-” Hosea’s lungs squealed “-four years-” he gasped “-younger!”

“Yer still prettier than me, don’t you worry,” Uncle teased, planting firm hands on Hosea’s chest and back. “Now breathe, ya moron!”

“I’m-! trying-!” Hosea coughed, fumbling through his coat pockets for the tin Hamish gave him. Finally grasping it, he ripped it out and unscrewed the lid, forcing himself to hold his breath for a moment before desperately sucking in as much air as he could above the mixture, continuing until his lungs finally opened themselves again enough to breathe. After taking in three deep breaths, he smacked Uncle hard right in the sternum, making him yelp. “Now get off me!”

Uncle settled his weight even further onto Hosea’s legs. “Now, now, you hang on there! Have you eaten at all today?”

Hosea narrowed his eyes. “I am _ordering you_ to _get_ -”

“Ooh-HOO~” Uncle wiggled his fingers through the air. “He’s _orderin’_ me-” Uncle yelped again when Hosea snatched his hat and slapped him across the face with it. “Now that’s uncalled for!” he whined, right before Hosea squished the hat against his face, finally making the man roll backwards enough for Hosea to squirm out from under him and clamber to his feet to make a run for it, only for Uncle to belly-flop forwards and wrap a hand around his ankle.

“Uncle,” Hosea warned, ignoring how the world started spinning again and his sciatic nerve was making his leg muscles spasm, “I will _kick_ you in the _face_ so _help me-_ ”

“Well fine then!” Uncle huffed, letting go of his ankle to sit up, picking up a metal tin that Hosea hadn’t noticed the man had on him and setting it in his lap. “I’ll eat your food, since you clearly don’t want it!”

Hosea blinked at him, swayed, then caught himself on a stumbled foot. He staggered backwards and finally sat himself heavily down in the folding chair with a pained noise. He raised a hand to hold over one of his eyes and took another deep breath, finally venturing, “...My food?”

Uncle sniffed at him and scowled. “Yeah, _your food._ Reckon’d I’d fix you up somethin’ since I only saw you eat a few mouthfuls yesterday and nothin’ at all today.” He opened the tin and pulled out a perfectly seared pheasant breast covered in seasoning, along with a packet of crackers and sliced squares of cheese. Hosea’s stomach made a loud growl, and in one swoop he became sharply aware of the pain spearing through it that had originally been drowned out by his sciatic nerve and screaming joints. After making aggressive eye contact with Hosea, Uncle opened his mouth and brought the meat close-

Hosea made a low whine.

“Oh? You want it?” Uncle questioned, waving the meat around.

Hosea narrowed his eyes. “Remind me why the hell Dutch and I kept you around?” Uncle brought the meat towards his mouth again, prompting a pained “ _Augh._ ”

Uncle busted up laughing and shook his head. “If you want it, just say so!”

“ _Yes_ , I want it, you damned fool!”

“Ah-ah,” Uncle tutted, “say it _nicely!_ ”

Hosea glowered at him. “I should beat your ass.”

Uncle damn near unhinged his jaw as he tilted his head back like he was gonna deep-throat the damn bird.

“FUCK, _please,_ God!” When Uncle quirked an eyebrow, Hosea added, “Pretty please? Old friend? Good buddy? Handsome chap? O’ guardian of savory meats?”

Uncle cackled and put the food back in the tin, shuffling over on his knees to hand it to Hosea, who snatched it. “Never heard you beg before! That was an experience!”

Hosea rolled his eyes as he picked up the pheasant. “Damn simpletons keep bringing back shot-up meat that tastes like death. I honestly think I prefer the disgusting, egg-y potato water Pearson resorts to when we run out.” He brought the pheasant up to his mouth, then hesitated, looking askance at Uncle’s sweaty hands and dirt-caked nails. “...You didn’t cook this yourself, did you?”

Uncle puffed his chest up and ran his thumbs down his suspenders. “Made with my own snot, sweat, and tears!” Hosea made a face like he’d just licked a shit-covered frog, making a cackle explode out of Uncle’s chest as he wiped a mirthful tear from his eye. “Naw, little miss Tilly made it for you. I’m just the messenger.”

A bubble of warmth rippled through Hosea’s chest as he looked through the camp and spotted the girl in question, her tongue sticking out in concentration as she furiously spun a stick to start a fire under the tutelage of Charles. His expression softened considerably, and he hummed happily as he bit into the meat of the bird, savoring the perfect tender juiciness and mix of flavors. He quickly scarfed down half the bird before turning back to Uncle, swallowing thickly. “...Thank you for bringing it to me. She’s an incredible girl, ain’t she?”

Uncle turned and softly grinned at Tilly. “Of the best sort.” With another chuckle, he turned and pat Hosea’s foot. “How you holding up?”

Hosea finished the bird and started on the crackers and cheese. He swallowed again, sighing before answering, “About how I look.”

Uncle snorted. “If we are how we look, I reckon I must be dead!”

Hosea smirked. “Sometimes I wonder.”

The men sat in easy silence as Hosea finished his cheese and crackers and gulped down a few mouthfuls of water from his waterskin. After a few beats, Hosea turned to Uncle. “How are _you_ holding up, friend?”

Uncle sighed, drumming his hands on his lap. “Well, you know ‘bout how it goes, the ol’ lumbago’s actin’ up-” Hosea rolled his eyes to the skies and Uncle chuckled yet again, continuing, “but ah, I’m doin’ okay I reckon. Seen a lot of death in my days. ...S’been a pretty bad year.” He shrugged. “At least ol’ Dutch got to go out like a hero, way I hear it. Got a better death than all those poor kids.” He cringed. “Especially that poor O’Driscoll.”

“He wasn’t an O’Driscoll,” Hosea said softly, finding himself speaking the words in the boy’s stead. “He was ours as much as Sean or Jenny or the Callander boys were.” 

“I know,” Uncle said quietly. He took off his hat and rubbed his head, letting out a long sigh. “All them kids that got killed, I think he and Mac are what get me most. The dyin’ alone. It ain’t right.”

Hosea set the tin down on the ground beside the chair and steepled his hands, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin on his thumbs. “How is it… that old, wretched men like us can keep on living, while the world takes folk so young and full of promise in ways so brutal?”

“It wasn’t the world that took ‘em,” Uncle said darkly. “It was men.”

Hosea shook his head, the memory of Lenny’s sobs echoing in his ears. He resituated himself in the chair and dragged a hand down his face. “We have to do better.”

“You’ll take care of ‘em,” Uncle asserted, slapping a hand on Hosea’s knee. “You’ll see us through this. You’re the best man for it.”

Hosea frowned. Before he could say anything, however, he heard Javier yell from where he was standing guard, “Who’s there?!”

A distant woman’s voice yelled, “The Trelawnys! Please, we seek sanctuary!”

“Shit!” Javier yelled, just as everyone in camp swiftly dropped what they were doing and popped up to their feet, bewildered and alarmed. Hosea was on his feet in a flash and rushing forwards, stopping when Gwydion appeared, pulling a black buggy driven by an elegant black woman in a gray dress and black coat, flanked by a pair of finely-dressed young boys with her kinky hair and Josiah’s green eyes, their skin a shade of rich brown between their father and mother. In the back of the buggy, wrapped in blankets, was-

“Christ,” Hosea breathed, seeing Trelawny’s - Josiah’s - face beaten to a black, green, blue and purple pulp, far worse than when Arthur and Charles had brought him to Clemen’s Point, from where he was laying in the back. The buggy stopped near the middle of camp, and Hosea instantly stepped up to the side, wincing at the man. “What happened?”

One of the boys - the youngest - blinked owlishly at him. “Daddy was taken away by mean men.”

Mrs. Trelawny cupped the boy’s head to her side and looked at Hosea with wide, pained eyes. “These agents came to our door one day, said they were with the Pinkerton Detective Agency. They seized Josiah and took him somewhere, I don’t know where, but I couldn’t get to him or ask anyone about it and I couldn’t go to the police because-” she bit her lip and looked back at her husband “-our marriage isn’t recognized in Lemoyne, and Saint Denis holds no sympathy for negro-lovers. Next thing I know I find him in the gutter, beaten half to death, he wakes up and tells me to leave him and flee the city ‘cause they were coming for me next-” she huffed at the man “ _-idiot_ , I refused, stole him away to a friend’s house and he told me we needed to come here and that we need to go to Canada and that we’d be safe with you and-”

 _“Were you followed?!”_ burst out of Hosea’s chest, raw and panicked. “By God, did anyone follow you?!”

Mrs. Trelawny frantically shook her head. “He stayed awake the whole way and told me what to do. Damn fool finally passed out only a minute ago.”

A relieved exhale punched out of Hosea as he nodded. “Okay. All right.” He turned to face the rest of the gang, most of whom were still shell-shocked at the sight of Josiah’s family. “Susan, Abigail, Swanson, ready my bedroom for Josiah and his family and see that he’s tended to. Charles, Bill, help me move mine and Dutch’s things out of the house, give them space. The rest of you, mind your business.”

The five of them instantly started moving for the house while the others awkwardly hovered, hesitantly drifting back to their original tasks. Hosea turned and held out an arm for Lady Trelawny with a quiet “Ma’am.” She smiled a smile that didn’t reach her eyes and accepted it, using it to brace herself to hop out of the carriage. With her feet on the ground, she turned and reached out for her youngest, who was held out to her by the older brother. As she set the youngest one on the ground, the older one hopped out on his own.

“You there, young man,” Hosea said, looking down at the boy who couldn’t be older than ten, “what’s your name?”

The boy swallowed and blinked up at him. “Tarquin.”

“Tarquin. That’s a fine name.” He nodded towards Josiah. “Think you can help me carry your Daddy into the house?”

Tarquin set his shoulders and nodded. “I helped Mommy move him before, I can do it again. We have a stretcher in the back.”

Hosea looked over the Trelawny family and huffed, impressed. “You’re all as smart and resourceful as Josiah.” Three bittersweet smiles greeted him in response, and together, Hosea and Tarquin made quick work of opening the chest at the back of the buggy with all the belongings the family could grab and took out the two poles and length of canvas for the stretcher. After setting it up, they laid it on the ground beside the buggy as Mrs. Trelawny gingerly gathered her husband into her arms. Hosea rose and clambered into the buggy to grab his hips and feet, and the two counted to three before lifting Josiah to set him out on the canvas as quick and smooth as they could. The man woke with a strangled, pained noise the second they jostled him, and by the time they finally got him on the stretcher he was panting and blinking blearily up at the sky.

Tarquin replaced his mother at the head of the stretcher and kneeled down to grab the poles. With another count to three, Hosea and the boy heaved the stretcher up off the ground and began carefully carrying it towards the house. Hosea looked down at Josiah and asked, “You making a habit of looking like this, friend?”

Josiah made a pained, yet amused, gurgle. Mrs. Trelawny clasped his hand and huffed, “Silly man.”

They paused at the front door and waited as Bill and Charles left, arms laden with stacks of Dutch’s crates, before continuing to shuffle inside where Mary-Beth watched them in stunned shock. Hosea led the boy to the master bedroom, and in only a few more steps, they were able to set the stretcher on the bed and ease it out from under him. Tarquin shoved the stretcher under the bed while the younger brother climbed onto the mattress to sit gingerly next to his father, staring down at him with big doe-eyes. Hosea caught Josiah wilt slightly before Mrs. Trelawny asked him to help bring their trunk inside. 

Five minutes later, Mrs. Trelawny and Hosea set the heavy trunk down at the foot of the bed, and Susan was instantly snapping at them to get out of the way so that she and Swanson could work. Mrs. Trelawny gathered the two boys to her and pressed them all against the wall to get out of her and Swanson’s way, feet planted firm and resolute, her jaw set. Everyone knew that she would not be separated from her husband again.

“Do you need me for anything?” Hosea asked, cringing at the rasp in his lungs and the bow in his spine from his nerves feeling like they were being electrocuted.

“No,” Susan said primly, shooting him a glare. “Go find a new place to sleep.”

Hosea frowned, and gave his and Bessie’s bedroom one last, long, reverent once-over. He tucked his hands quickly into a drawer of her vanity and snatched a small trinket with all the speed and grace of a thief’s veteran hands before swiftly walking out of the house. In the sunlight, he opened his hand to look down at the pearl brooch in the shape of a dove, feeling the old familiar sensation of a sink-hole opening up in his chest, wide and gaping and hollow.

“Where do you want these to go, Hosea?”

Hosea blinked up from the brooch to look at Charles. “Uh…” He sighed, looking away, closing the brooch in his fist again. “You can put Dutch’s things in the barn. Doesn’t matter where.”

Charles and Bill frowned, but nodded silently. Bill picked his stack up and walked off towards the barn while Charles hung back, picking up a small parcel wrapped in paper from the top and pressing it into Hosea’s free hand. “There’s all of your... things,” he said softly. “And here’s your bedroll and all your clothes,” he added, slinging them over Hosea’s arm. Hosea nodded his thanks absently as Charles picked up the rest of the crates and turned towards the barn.

“Hosea!”

Hosea turned to see Tilly and Karen diligently erecting Abigail’s tent in an empty spot between Arthur’s and one of the communal tents. Tilly looked back at him and smiled, saying, “We thought that since Abigail and Jack and John have their room in the house, you could finally get your old tent back!”

Hosea let out a slow sigh, then allowed a genuine smile to show as he shuffled closer to the girls. “You know, Miss Jackson, I’m starting to believe that you have a little conspiracy to pamper me.”

“Just a little?” Tilly chuckled. When he got close, the girl stepped up to him and gave him a brief embrace before fixing the lapel of his coat. “You best be taking care of yourself now, Mr. Matthews.”

Karen suddenly shoulder-checked him with the force of a mule’s leg, making him spin around and stumble. She steadied him, only a little remorseful, and smirked. “The conspiracy’s way bigger than lil’ ol’ Tilly here. You won’t be no use to any of us if ya treat yourself like some old work horse.”

“The tent’s all made up,” Tilly continued, raising her chin, “so you rest up before you deal with whatever business the Trelawnys have.”

Hosea slowly narrowed his eyes at them both. “I’m being usurped by all these children,” he said quietly, spurring a giggly laugh from all three of them. “Thank you girls.”

Tilly and Karen started walking off, each keeping an ornery eye on him. “Take a nap, old man!” Karen called back.

Hosea waved them off with a laugh. Shaking his head, he crawled into the tent and set all of his things down in a pile, wincing against the cracks and snaps of his joints before turning to shut the tent flaps. He sighed, then turned to pick up Bessie’s pearl dove again. He studied it in his hand for a long moment before pressing a small kiss to it, then fastened it to his vest. He rolled out his bedroll and dragged himself into it with a long, low groan, then almost instantly passed out into a deep and dreamless nap.

When he awoke and peeked out of the tent flap, the sun was setting. He took a long drink from his waterskin before crawling out into the din of camp, shaking out his limbs. His nerve pain was barely noticeable anymore, and his joints felt legions better. He waved at those who greeted him as he looked around, finally fixing his eyes on Swanson.

“Swanson,” he called, hurrying towards the man, “how’s Trelawny?”

Swanson turned to him from where he was trying to hold his stew bowl in his shaking hands. “Oh! Uh, h-hi Hosea! He’s um uh, he’s- stable. Susan and Abigail brought them all meals about half an hour ago, and he was awake then.”

“Is there anything urgent I need to know?”

Swanson shook his head. “Not that I know of.”

Hosea nodded. “Okay. Thank you. I’m going to go check on them.”

Swanson could only get out a flustered “Okay- ah! Oh! Bye!” at the speed with which Hosea turned on his heels and sped towards the house. A similarly stunted greeting occurred with Mary-Beth and Javier as Hosea breezed past them in the living-room, and Hosea barely had the presence of mind to knock on the bedroom door.

The door creaked open to show Mrs. Trelawny’s anxious, tired eyes, and Hosea offered her a warm smile. “Hello, ma’am. May I come in?”

With a hesitant nod, Mrs. Trelawny slowly opened the door, allowing Hosea to step through before she closed it again. Hosea took off his hat and held it to his stomach at the sight of Josiah breathing raggedly in the lamplight and the dying sun, his torso bare except for bandages ensconcing his torso, where even more horrific bruising peeked out before continuing all down the length of his arms, one of which was in a splint and sling. The youngest Trelawny boy was idly drawing on the floor, and Tarquin was perched on the bed beside his father, body tensed like a drawn bowstring. 

Hosea carefully turned his head to take in them all as Mrs. Trelawny crossed back over to sit in a chair pulled up close to the bed. He cleared his throat gently, then said, “Things were a good bit chaotic earlier, and I don’t think I was able to properly introduce myself. My name is Hosea Matthews, and I’m an old friend of Josiah’s.”

The youngest boy looked up at him. “You run the Van der Linde gang!”

“ _Cornelius_ ,” Tarquin hissed.

Hosea’s smile winced downwards. “No need to shame bluntness here, son.” He looked over at Mrs. Trelawny and Josiah. “I’m not… entirely sure how much of a shock this is or isn’t.”

Mrs. Trelawny’s eyes slid to the side to glare at her husband. “Total.”

Hosea huffed. “I promise you, we had no idea our flightful magician had a family until _very recently_.”

Mrs. Trelawny’s hand slid over Josiah’s, and she pressed a chaste kiss to his hairline, making him sigh happily. Any anger or judgement she held was gone, easy as a leaf down a stream. “‘Flightful’s a good word for him.”

Josiah blinked swollen eyelids first at her, then Tarquin. “I never... meant... for you all... to get... involved,” he croaked.

Hosea crossed his arms. “Families on the side always get involved eventually, Josiah.” Small crosses bearing the names _Eliza_ and _Isaac_ flashed behind his eyes, followed by the image of Arthur’s face contorted in a screaming sob. “You have no idea how lucky you are.”

“Oh,” Josiah sighed, moving his one good arm stiltedly over Tarquin’s lap to gently hold his knee, “I think... I have... some idea.” The boy smiled and rested his hands feather-light on his father’s arm.

Hosea’s expression softened, and he shifted his weight before uncrossing his arms. “In case there was any doubt, you are all welcome to stay with us for as long as you want or need. Josiah’s one of our own, and thus so are you. Anything you need, we’ll do our best to take care of you. You’re under our protection.”

Mrs. Trelawny smiled at him. “Thank you.”

Cornelius blinked up at him again. “Can you teach me how to be a gunslinger?”

Hosea smirked at him. “ _Absolutely_ not.”

“Darling…” Josiah rasped. “May I and… dear Hosea here… talk in private?”

Hosea rolled his neck to relieve some of the tension. “I know the rest of our big happy family would adore meeting you all. And Tarquin, Cornelius? We have a little boy named Jack who runs around here, and he gets real lonely with nobody to play with. Do you think you can find a game to play with him?”

Cornelius beamed while even more tension eased out of Tarquin’s frame, and both boys replied, “Yes!”

Mrs. Trelawny chuckled and looked at Josiah again. “I’d love to meet your ‘coworkers’ from the ‘office.’”

Josiah smiled a radiant smile up at her. “All pale… in comparison… to you, Angel.”

“Flatterer,” she murmured, pressing one last kiss to Josiah’s hairline as Tarquin gingerly scooted off the bed. “Come on, children. Let’s go meet your Daddy’s friends.” She opened the door for the two bouncing boys, cast one last glowing smile back at Josiah, and followed them out, clicking the door shut behind her.

“They’re too good for you,” Hosea said with a chuckle as he sat down in the chair by the bed.

“I know,” Josiah croaked. He lolled his head towards Hosea and looked at him with exhausted, anxious eyes. “I didn’t… I didn’t… tell them anything…”

Any mirth Hosea held slid out of his expression. He flicked his eyes down the length of Josiah’s body. “You _look_ like you didn’t tell them anything,” he said gently, moving a tender hand to rest on the man’s shoulder.

“Hosea,” Josiah pleaded. “Cornwall… wants… you all. Everyone… dead… in coffins… lined up for the… paper. He’s doubled… their pay… to wipe you all- out.” Hosea felt his heart sink to match his frown. “They know… you were in… the city. To take… Dutch. They took… a woman… you gave her… money. They killed… her.” Hosea slammed his eyes shut, his free hand clenching into a fist. “They got… Micah.”

Hosea’s eyes flew open and he swallowed. “They killed Micah?”

Josiah looked even more pained. “ _No…_ they… turned him. He’s their… hunter. He took… a plea. His freedom… if he… finds and… kills you all.”

The two men breathed and blinked at each other.

Hosea’s vision tunneled and a ringing sounded in his ears, his heart thundering so heavy and loud it felt fit to burst from his ribcage. Everything seemed to narrow down to the image of Micah Bell’s cold, sadistic, hate-filled eyes, to the sound of his leery, breathy voice, and to his swaying gate and twitchy fingers which contained unspeakable capacity for violence.

Without another word, Hosea tore out of the chair and flew out the door, flinging it open so hard it slammed into the wall. In an instant, he was in the living room, snapping at Javier to follow him out of the house and grab his guns. Javier paled and sprinted to comply. 

In an automatic haze, Hosea called Silver Dollar up to the barn where he paused only long enough to grab his bridle before slipping it onto his head and into his mouth. He vaulted onto the horse bareback and cantered him up to Charles’s side where he was standing guard.

“ _Charles_ ,” he said, breathless, “has Arthur come back yet?!”

Charles’s eyes widened and he instantly changed his stance into one ready for a fight. “No.” His eyes searched Hosea’s face. “Something’s wrong. Is Arthur in danger?”

“We all are,” Hosea hissed, snapping his head over to Javier skidding up to his side on the back of Boaz. He looked back and forth between the two boys and asked, “What did you three use to find us here? Was it the poem or my letters?”

“The poem,” Javier said quickly.

“Did you take it with you?”

“Yes,” Charles replied.

Hosea relaxed slightly and nodded, then met Charles’s eyes. “Protect the others. Have Susan do a headcount. Javier and I will be back in fifteen minutes and I promise I’ll explain everything.” With that, he kicked Silver Dollar into a full gallop, tossing a single _“Come on son!”_ over his shoulder at Javier.

“What the hell is going on?!” Javier called up to him, galloping up to his side as they tore through the trees and the darkness towards Moonstone Pond.

“The Pinkertons turned Micah on us,” Hosea panted. “We gotta destroy those cairns.”

“ _Shit,_ ” Javier hissed, paling even further. “Por Dios, I hope Arthur gets back soon.”

Hosea signaled for them both to slow and stop on the edge of the treeline in front of the pond. After making sure the trail was clear, they hid their horses in the underbrush and sprinted across the trail, shoving the cairns over and then hurling the rocks into the distance. When every cairn was destroyed and their rocks were strewn all over, they rushed back to their horses and sprinted back to camp, where they found everyone in a tight anxious bundle around the main campfire. Hosea rode Silver Dollar right up to them before dismounting, where he was immediately pinned by all of their anxious gazes.

“Is everyone here?” he asked.

Susan frowned at him. “Trelawny and Mary-Beth are in the house, and Arthur’s still out, but other than that, yes, we’re all here.”

“ _Hosea_ ,” John pleaded, voice strained from where he was standing beside Abigail, who was clutching Jack to her chest, “what’s wrong? Do we need to leave?!”

“No,” Hosea breathed, shaking his head and rubbing the back of his neck. “No, no, we’re okay here. We’re safe - for now.” He wet his lips and lifted his head to meet all of their gazes again. “Here’s the situation. The Pinkertons are still looking for us, and they know we went back to Saint Denis. Their pay’s been doubled, and probably so has their patrols. Most concerning of all is that they picked up Micah, cut him a deal.” Hosea heaved out a breath. “ _He’s_ hunting us, too, now.”

A low, anxious murmur reverberated through the crowd.

“Now he has _no way_ to know we’re here,” Hosea asserted. “I don’t want any of you _panicking_ , or you’ll get us all killed. What I _do_ want from you all is discipline. If you leave the homestead, take at least one other person with you, and tell two separate people where you’re going, what for, and for how long. Am I _understood?_ ” He waited until he heard an affirmative from every mouth. “We’re also moving our time frame up. I don’t want us dilly-dallying around here for a month. We’re going to move out and head north by the end of this week. I want you all to keep training yourselves on your survival skills and I want you training _hard_ . I also expect each of you to hunt and preserve at least one animal, use its hide to make cold weather gear and preserve its meat. It’s lookin’ like we’ll be crossing the border in the dead of winter.” When he heard a few low groans, he repeated, with a note of steel in his voice, _“Am I understood?”_

A firm _“Yes!”_ answered him from the crowd with some _“sir!”s_ peppered in.

“Good,” Hosea huffed. He looked out at all of their expectant faces for one last, long moment, before he let his eyes soften. “We’re going to be okay,” he said softly. “Dismissed.”

Despite the haze of unease that hung in the air, most of the gang stepped away with the force of purpose and determination in their step. Hosea smiled after them all and grabbed Silver Dollar’s reins to lead him back to the pasture, shoving an apple into his mouth to elicit a happy nicker and tail swish.

When Hosea himself was back around the main fire with an apple of his own and a can of corned beef, Karen sidled up to him and sat down on the same log, folding her hands in her lap and jiggling her leg.

“Karen,” he greeted warmly.

“Hey, Hosea,” she said, voice hesitant and tense. Hosea looked at her from where he’d been tearing into his apple. 

After chewing and swallowing, he gently prompted, “Something on your mind?”

Karen looked at him and frowned, breaking their gaze to stare at the ground. “I been thinkin’... that it ain’t. Fair. It ain’t fucking fair.”

Hosea angled himself towards her. “What isn’t?” he asked softly.

 _“We never grieved for Sean,”_ Karen ground out, her voice breaking on the boy’s name. She clenched her jaw and shook her head, closing her eyes in an attempt to prevent tears from falling. “Jack getting snatched was all anyone could ever talk about. And I understand it, I do. But then we got him back, and we celebrated like everything was fine, but it’s _not fine,_ and then we never spoke about it - about him - ever again.” She suddenly fisted her hands into her hair. “Hardly did shit for Davey, Mac, or Jenny either. _Or_ Kieran. An’ now we’re just gonna leave and act like they weren’t nothin’ to us again.”

Hosea’s hands slackened so much he almost dropped his apple. Slowly, he perched it on the rim of his empty can and set it down so that he could reach out and rub a heavy hand over Karen’s back. “You’re right,” he said quietly. “Every single one of them deserves to be grieved over every bit as much as Dutch does. To be celebrated just as much.” He looked into the glow of the fire for a long moment. “We should hold a wake for them all before we leave. A candle vigil, here in a couple days. Stop for a damn second and give them all of our attention, all of our grief, because God, you’re right. They all deserve so much better.”

Karen pressed her face against his chest, and Hosea gathered her up in his arms to hold her as she wept and nodded, running his hand through her hair. Several of the others passed them, but spared them only a sympathetic glance, holding their tongues against Karen’s open show of vulnerability. After a few minutes, Karen finally caught her breath and sniffled her tears back. She pushed her hair back from her face and breathed deeply, smiling slightly as she sat up. She cleared her throat, then said, “I’ll stay up on watch tonight and look out for Arthur. If he comes back, I’ll make sure he kicks your foot, let’cha know he’s back.”

Hosea chuckled. “I would like that very much,” he said, giving her shoulder one last squeeze. “You be careful, now.”

“Always.”

“A bold-faced lie.”

Karen snorted and slapped his shoulder before getting up. “Can’t get nothin’ past _you,_ old man.”

Before Karen could fully move away, Hosea quietly added, “And Karen? I’m proud of you. Stopping the drink is a hell of a thing.”

Karen looked back at him, and when their gazes met, both of them looked exhausted. She quirked the corner of her mouth up. “Maybe you, me, and Swanson should form some kind of club.”

Hosea snorted. “Maybe we should.”

“...Thanks for always being willin’ to talk to me, Hosea.”

Hosea’s expression softened. “Thank _you_ for trusting me, Miss Jones.”

The two left each other to their tasks for the night, shoulders feeling a little lighter.

\--

_The sunlight filtering in through the window eased through Hosea’s eyelids and gently roused him from sleep. He stretched and sighed softly against the sheets, shifting and rolling his head over the pillow, not quite opening his eyes yet. His ankle slid over to the other side of the bed and hit something soft and solid. He cracked his lids open and saw a shock of familiar strawberry-blonde hair beside him. A warm smile graced his face as he rolled towards Bessie’s form, molding himself to her side as he slung an arm over her middle. He leaned his head forward to sleepily nuzzle his nose along her jaw, then winced and drew back when he felt her icy cold skin._

_With a concerned mumble, he yawned and tugged the blankets further up towards their chins. “Yer freezin’, dear…” he murmured, propping himself up on his elbow and finally opening his eyes to take in her face._

_Cold, dead, empty green eyes stared unseeing up at the ceiling. Her skin was deathly pale, nearly porcelain white. Two puncture-wounds marred her neck._

_Hosea felt his heart stop._

_The distant sound of a baby’s cry started it up again. Tearing out of bed, he exploded out of their bedroom and skidded into the nursery, catching himself in the doorway, hyperventilating. Their baby was wailing in the crib he’d built, waving their little arms around, writhing away from the diamondback rattlesnake rattling at them from where it was coiled up beside them._

_“No,” Hosea choked, hot tears slipping down his cheeks. The rattlesnake met his eyes, hazel on hazel. “Please, God, no. Don’t.” His hoarse begging raised into a near scream. “Please, God.”_

_The rattlesnake struck and the scene flashed to a blinding white void, empty save for the distorted voice of a woman echoing through the light._

**Ȧ̸̛̜̤ ̵̘͑̅s̴͉͙̋ṋ̵̚á̷̡̻̓k̷̥̈́̂e̵̳̦̽.̶̮͛̌**

Hosea screamed so hard he choked and started coughing, flailing out of his bedroll and launching himself nearly into the canvas of his tent wall. He slammed his hands against his head and rolled himself onto his knees, shaking and gasping and crying. All of his emotions and his body were reacting like they were reliving Bessie’s death, but his head knew that the details were all wrong, that it was a nightmare, that he was in his tent. His body and mind wrenched themselves in two between the two times, the two places. Bessie was fading away in his arms, but he was sitting in his tent. He ached for the sound of their baby, but the infant was dead before they left the womb, never to make a sound. He was standing in front of the flaming crib with his cattleman held in his hand in the yard, but it was dark and he was holding a highly engraved Schofield in his hand.

Hosea blinked at the gun, at his hunting-knife, and felt an _itch_.

Instead, he dropped the gun like it scalded him and went staggering out of the tent, breaths coming quick and ragged. He whirled around and took in the campfires and the tents sheltering the gang, feeling his heart leap in his throat. He wanted to dive back into his tent and cinch the flaps shut, but he didn’t trust himself with weapons. He wanted to run into the house and barricade himself in the bedroom, but it was taken. He wanted to run away to Dutch, but the man was dead.

Someone stirred and the next thing Hosea knew he was running towards the pasture, the moon hanging high above him.

Once he was over the fence he managed to control his gate to a quick walk, picking his way through the grass, trying to avoid all the manure piles. He was grateful he slept in his boots, but the sharp chill of the night air made him shiver and ache for his coat. The thought of going back shot a zing of panic up his spine every time he entertained the idea, however, so he pressed on, wincing at the sting of mist hitting his face and hands. 

He eventually found his way to the clearing near the little creek where he’d found Molly. He found a massive flat rock under a tree nearby and sat down on it, crossing his legs and hugging himself, trembling and shaking and shivering. He fought desperately to slow down his breathing to no avail. The babbling of the creek and the screeches of owls and insects in the night helped tether him to reality, but he still heard phantom rattles and the mysterious woman’s voice in the distance, still saw phantom faces in the dark that he couldn’t make out. Worst of all, his body kept reacting like he was in their bedroom, holding Bessie as she slipped away, losing that three-day-long war against her own body, adrenaline pouring into his system as he shook and wailed, powerless, _helpless_.

He didn’t hear Silver Dollar approaching him until the horse was almost on top of him, nickering softly. Hosea stared at him with glassy, wet eyes, and when he didn’t take any other action, Silver Dollar lowered his ears and nuzzled his nose against Hosea’s face, tickling him with his whiskers and blowing hot air from his nostrils. A sob finally slipped from Hosea’s throat, and he reached up to rub his stallion’s cheek with a trembling hand. Silver Dollar blinked his long lashes at him and looked at him with old, knowing eyes, making another gentle, comforting sound as he pressed his head against Hosea’s sternum, supporting his weight. Hosea sobbed again and smiled, allowing his tears to flow down his cheeks as he hugged the horse’s head.

“You good horse,” he wheezed. “My good, sweet boy. Hi, Silver.” Silver Dollar nickered softly again, then slowly raised his head - blowing another puff of hot air in Hosea’s face - before sliding his chin over Hosea’s shoulder and taking a step closer, tucking his chin down and turning his head, pressing Hosea against his shoulder. The incredibly human gesture from the horse was enough for Hosea to break apart completely, and he shook and wept as he clutched his arms around Silver Dollar’s neck. He swallowed thickly and managed to gasp, “You know exactly what I’m crying about, don’t you?” between his sobs. He curled his fingers into Silver Dollar’s mane and screwed his eyes shut, focusing on the warmth of his old friend, the sound of his breathing, the way he smelled - alfalfa and wet grass and horse sweat - banishing away the phantoms of the past and anchoring him to the present. 

“I miss her,” he wept, voice broken and breathy. “I miss her so much. I miss her every day.” He searched for more words, but that’s all there was - sharp and aching. _“I miss her.”_

Silver Dollar blew out another breath and swished his tail, nuzzling Hosea’s back harder.

Hosea wept into the stallion’s neck for several long minutes until he heard the sound of footsteps approaching him in the grass from further up the hill - slow, calculated, purposefully projecting their sound so that he knew they were coming. Hosea turned his head further into Silver Dollar’s neck and stifled his breath, smothering his sobs away into simple wet breathing. The footsteps stopped a few yards away, and the figure did not make another sound, just patiently waited in easy non-judgemental silence. Hosea would have guessed the presence was Arthur if he hadn’t known the man was still out, which meant it could only be one other person.

He cleared his throat and whispered, “Charles.”

Charles stayed silent for a long moment before softly saying, “I brought you a blanket.”

Hosea cleared his throat again and took a deep breath, wiping his tears. He stroked Silver Dollar’s neck tenderly and patted it twice before finally turning around to look at the man. Silver Dollar snorted and shook out his coat, then sidled away a couple steps to start grazing.

Sure enough, Charles was standing with a thick and heavy blanket folded in his arms, his posture loose and disarming. He held it out slightly in a silent offer, just as Hosea started shivering again. Hosea gave him a small, genuine smile and nodded. Charles stepped carefully up to him and pressed the blanket into his hands, which Hosea promptly flung around his back and shoulders, bundling it up tightly around his front and huddling into it. Hosea heaved a relieved sigh as the heavy weight and warmth pressed in on him, anchoring him to his bones. “Thank you, son.”

Charles shrugged slightly. “No problem. I saw you leave without your coat and figured you’d be cold.” He looked Hosea over for a long moment, his expression hard to read. “Do you want to be alone?”

Hosea thought it over for a long while. Finally, he said, “...I wouldn’t mind company.” Charles nodded. Hosea scooted over to one side of the rock, patting the space next to him for Charles to sit. Charles did so, his hands awkwardly folded in his lap, back rigid and straight. 

"I never had the time to tell you before," Charles started haltingly, "but when I was out scouting, I found a mountain pass northwest of the Wapiti reservation. It should be wide enough for the wagons, but it's very steep. I would have been back sooner to tell you, but I stopped on the reservation to help."

"You made a good call," Hosea said, trying to not sound so tired. "God knows they need it. Good work on finding that pass, too."

Charles nodded. Hosea waited for the boy to relax, but when he was in the same rigid position a couple minutes later, a chuckle bubbled up from his chest along with a smile. “You don’t have to hang out with this weepy old man if you don’t want to.”

Charles frowned at him. “No, I…” he sighed, then reached down to grab a thick stick off the ground that had fallen off the tree. He ran his hands over the rough bark in a long, slow, back-and-forth motion, creating a gentle whisper of wood and skin, then patiently started picking the bark off and discarding it on the ground, his posture relaxing more and more as he did so. “I’m still not used to this.”

Hosea smiled softly at the stim before looking up at the boy’s eyes. “Not used to what?”

Charles bit his lip. “Being with… people. Being vulnerable around people, people being vulnerable around me… I’ve had… more of it this year than I have in the past twenty.” 

It was Hosea’s turn to look Charles over for a long moment. The moon and stars made the night cozily bright, and served just enough soft light for him to make out the faint shadows of scars on his hands, his head, and his face. The lines of stress and wisdom at the corners of his eyes and mouth starkly contrasted against the youthful smoothness everywhere else. 

Hosea huffed and shook his head slightly, prompting Charles to turn his head towards him. “You know, there are countless other men who’ve walked the road you took and had it turn them into sadistic bastards. But not you.” Hosea shook his head again. “You… somehow came out kind.”

Charles hummed and returned his gaze to his stick, prying his nails under a strip and peeling it off. “I don’t know about that.”

Hosea had to physically stop himself from incredulously shaking his head again, channeling the energy into a smile instead. “I’m serious. You’re one of the most morally and ethically sound people in this lot, you’re… selfless and generous and responsible. And you don’t kill unless you have to. That, above all, is what made me trust you so quickly, son. You have a profound respect for life that took me far too long to acquire. You may not have been running with us for long, but I trust this family of ours with you. Your presence takes a weight off my shoulders few others do, and you’re loved and trusted by so many already - perhaps none moreso than Arthur.”

The name made a soft light flare in Charles’s eyes as he glanced at him. A slow, wary smile graced the man’s face before he broke eye contact again to return to stripping his stick. “This group takes a lot of weight off me, too. I joined with you all because you seemed so… genuine. You weren’t a gang of young angry men wanting to kill and torture. You all came across me and I saw… women, and children, and elders. Javier, and Lenny, and Tilly, treated with respect. People with… chronic illnesses and injuries.” He glanced at Hosea. “I saw that you and Dutch were respected not out of fear but by your kindness. I was… so tired, of being alone. So tired of the constant… fear. Of living only to survive.” He finished stripping the stick, letting the last strip fall to the ground. “I’ve come to love and respect many of you. ...Especially Arthur.”

Both men turned their gaze upwards, taking in the vast rivers of stars that spun through the night sky, painting it in speckles of shining white against a backdrop of deep rich violets and blues. Both men wondered if Arthur was looking at the same stars.

“You were waiting up for him, weren’t you,” Hosea stated, smirking. Charles huffed a laugh as confirmation, and Hosea’s expression softened. “...You make him very happy, you know.”

Charles’s eyelids drooped as he relaxed. “The same is true in reverse.”

Hosea pulled his blanket closer against himself and sat up straight, stretching out his back and rolling his neck. When he settled again, he let out a long sigh. “You know,” he started, haltingly. “Arthur is very… precious, to me. I love him as if he were my own son.” Charles turned to look at him. “He’s… suffered so much. He’s lost more than any man his age has any right losing, and he endures far more shit than he ought to. He carries a lot of pain and poison inside of him, some of which even I don’t know about, because he… bottles it all up. He’s so rarely happy anymore, and it breaks my damn heart.”

When Hosea went silent, Charles slowly nodded. “I know,” he said softly.

Hosea fiddled with the hem of the blanket for a long moment. “I don’t want him hurt.”

Charles remained silent as the minutes passed, keeping his wary, searching eyes on Hosea’s profile.

Eventually, Hosea wet his lips and swallowed, turning to the boy. “Do you love him?”

Charles’s eyes widened for a moment. He turned away and brought his hands to his lap, sliding his fingers back and forth through each other. “I think… I do. I just… don’t know if it’s returned.” He pulled his legs up to cross under himself. “I treasure our friendship and his trust in me. That is enough. I’m willing to wait for him to come to me.”

Hosea’s eyes took in the wistful bow of the man’s back, the sorrowful yet determined arc of his brow. Hosea hummed, and the strained tension in his face eased away as he extracted a hand from the blanket to rest on Charles’s shoulder, solid and firm the way Arthur liked. “As his mentor of twenty years, I am contractually obligated to warn you that he’s a dense-headed fool.” Charles huffed a laugh, then grew somber again as he saw the look on Hosea’s face. “Don’t wait too long,” he said quietly. “Take it from me. Cherish the time you have with each other.”

A tear slipped down Hosea’s cheek and Charles stared at him. Charles’s brow furrowed, and slowly, he nodded, eyes sad and empathetic. Hosea squeezed his shoulder and added, “I trust you. And I trust you with him.”

Charles carefully raised his hand and placed it over Hosea’s. “Thank you,” he said quietly. “I know how much that means.”

Hosea smiled. “No, you don’t. Not until you have a child of your own will you ever come close.”

Charles smiled back. “No. I suppose I don’t.”

The two men sat in easy silence for a long while after, staring up at the stars.

\--

Shortly after the sun rose over the horizon, as everyone was just finishing their morning coffee or small breakfasts and organizing into groups for a hard day’s worth of drilling, John’s voice called out “Who’s there?!” from where he was standing guard a little ways down the path. There was no response except for the approaching beat of horse hooves. Several people slowed their steps and paused, turning their head towards the path as their hands drifted towards their guns. A few seconds later, they heard John’s voice again, loud and relieved, shout “Arthur!”

Everyone relaxed and continued about their business save for Hosea and Charles, who were hurrying towards the front of the homestead on quick feet. Arthur appeared on Killer, looking… looking…

Hosea balked.

The boy was visibly paler than normal, with dark circles carved under his bloodshot eyes, a faint sickly blush of pink and blue crawling up his neck to his cheeks that Hosea may not have noticed if he didn’t know what to look for. Arthur scanned over the entire camp - passing straight over Hosea and Charles - until he found Herr Strauss. His mouth sank into a grim line as he dismounted Killer and began stalking towards the man.

“Arthur,” Hosea began, trying to keep pace with him, “you don’t look well, are you feeling okay?”

Arthur waved him off. “Not now, ‘Sea.” Hosea paused where he stood and shared a concerned, confused look with Charles as Arthur continued his straight, purposeful line towards Strauss.

“Hey,” Arthur said gruffly once he got close to the man, who was sitting on a crate next to the main fire, perusing a book on plant identification. 

Strauss looked up from his book and perked up with a smile. “Ah! How did you get on, Mr. Morgan?”

Arthur huffed and scowled. “Just dandy.” Strauss looked back down into his book. “Just… Get up.”

Strauss looked up in confusion, and when he saw the expression of quiet rage on Arthur’s face, he did a double-take. “What?”

Arthur grabbed Strauss roughly by the shoulder and threw him onto his feet. _“Get up!”_

Strauss stumbled and stuttered, looking in bewilderment over his shoulder. “W-what- What is wrong?!”

Arthur glared venomously ahead as he frog-marched Strauss towards his wagon. “Nothin’s wrong. Nothing at all.”

Strauss looked at Arthur as he continued being man-handled through camp, panic rising further and further onto his face. “What are you doing?!”

“Something I should have done a _long time ago,_ ” Arthur growled, finally shoving Strauss harshly towards his things. “Get your bag. Is this it?” He violently snatched up a black leather bag.

Strauss turned around and stared at him, aghast, still clutching his book. “I don’t understand…” he bleated.

Arthur began shoving Strauss’s things roughshod and haphazard into the bag. “I ain’t gonna kill you. Though I probably should.” He came near Strauss and threw a hateful sneer at the man. “You disgust me,” he hissed before bending down to snatch a book from the ground, “and you _shame us._ If we could be shamed any more than we already are.” He roughly twisted the plant identification book out of Strauss’s hands and held it, white-knuckled. “That should do.” He slammed the bag into Strauss’s chest, making him go reeling backwards. Arthur violently shot the book so hard into the ground it bounced. _“Go!”_

Strauss frantically skittered backwards towards the path from where Arthur was advancing on him. “I don’t understand you! _What are you doing?!”_

Arthur harshly grabbed him by the collar and his shoulder, yelling “Go! And get! A _job!”_ before hurling the man towards the path away from the homestead.

Strauss staggered away for a few steps before whirling around, clutching his bag to his chest like a shield. He looked around desperately at all the frozen, stunned faces of the other gang members until his eyes locked on Hosea’s. _“Hosea, please!”_ he begged, trembling.

Hosea finally snapped out of his wall-eyed shock to rush up and stand between Arthur and Strauss, holding his arms out to shield the older man from the boy. _“Arthur,”_ he barked, “what the hell is going on?!”

Arthur refused to look at him, keeping his hateful stare on Strauss. “That man - no, that _snake-_ ” he bared his teeth “-is the worst goddamn killer amongst us.”

Hosea blinked rapidly. _“Explain.”_

Arthur pressed his lips into a firm line and shook his head in disgust, eyes wide and glassy, pupils contracted to small dots. “I know… that we ain’t decent… but those folk, _were_ .” If looks could kill, Strauss would be dead. Finally, after one last snarl, he slammed his eyes shut and looked at Hosea with an expression of enraged anguish. “Save folk as need savin’, kill folk as need killin’...? He’s had us killin’ the poorest and weakest, folk whose only crime was bein’ dealt a bad hand! He lent money to the _desperate_ , Hosea, to the folk we was supposed to be _savin’!_ And instead, I go out there to collect his debts, and I see families torn apart, folk killin’ themselves tryin’ to pay us back ‘cause they’re damn terrified that a crazy man’s gonna come and kill ‘em, and I may as well _have!_ ” His voice broke. “You know how many folk I saw die right in front of me?! How many widows we’ve made?! What we’ve reduced good and caring folk to?! I saw the Downes woman I widowed damn near get-” his voice choked shut, eyes unfocusing with a look of horror.

Hosea clenched his jaw and swallowed. “So your solution is to what? Kick Strauss out?! _That’s not your decision!”_

Arthur snapped back to the present to level a wounded glare at Hosea. “Oh, and _whose is it?!”_

 _“Strauss’s!”_ Hosea barked. “And his alone!”

Arthur clenched his fists and shook his head, eyes growing wet. “I can’t live in the same place as that fucking worm, Hosea! _I won’t!_ I tell ya, he’s a _killer-!_ ”

“And the _rest_ of us _aren’t?!”_ Hosea heaved for breath. “We’ve fallen real low, Arthur, I ain’t denying that, but don’t pin it all on Strauss for God’s sake! You run him out now you may as well kill him!”

_“That can be arranged-”_

Hosea pointed a violent finger away and across the homestead. _“Go cool off!”_ he bellowed. _“Now!_ _We’re done here!”_

Arthur fixed him with a look of such hurt that Hosea hadn’t made on the boy’s face for twenty years. He shook his head slowly, then unleashed a short, enraged scream before he whirled around, punched Strauss’s wagon so hard that some wood chipped off, and stormed off into the distance.

All the others who had been watching the confrontation with increasingly stunned and shocked expressions skittered away from Arthur’s path, openly gaping between him and Hosea before nervously lowering their eyes and slinking off. Charles quickly made his way after Arthur, throwing Hosea a single reserved look of sympathy over his shoulder before focusing all of his attention on keeping up.

Hosea continued to heave for breath, and when he blinked, his eyes stung.

Strauss’s relieved voice sounded from behind him. “Thank you, Hosea-”

A _crack!_ reverberated through the camp, swiftly followed by Strauss’s nasal scream. Everyone yet again froze and stared as Strauss crumpled to the ground, clutching his bleeding nose. Hosea stood tall and rigid above him, hand still raised from where he back-handed the man.

“You _dare?”_ Hosea questioned, voice low and cold. He slowly knelt down on one knee in front of Strauss, sharp hazel eyes boring into him. “I told you no more crime, and you have the gall to _disobey me?_ ”

Strauss made a squealing noise of pain and retorted “It’s perfectly legal!”

“You think sending Arthur out to beat and threaten people is legal? That that’s _lying low?_ ”

Strauss made a choked noise and finally pushed himself up to his knees. He took a deep, shuddering breath and squared his shoulders to defend himself, meeting Hosea’s eyes. “Mr. Morgan was never forced to collect any debt, he _volunteered_ to do so. In fact, _you_ have long urged him to come to me! And I do not control him when he interacts with debtors, his actions are his own!”

Strauss only realized his mistake when Hosea’s hand clamped around his throat.

With a growl of effort, Hosea dragged Strauss up and pinned the man to a tree, hands just tight enough to cause pain and serve as a warning but not to suffocate. He scowled at the man and hissed, voice laced with venom, “That is my _son._ And if you know what’s good for you, you’ll keep his name out of your disgusting mouth. You know damn well that Arthur is virtually incapable of saying the word ‘no.’ You know _damn_ well that you coached him on what to do, that he reads implications as orders.” A tremor ran through his body. “Dutch and I took you in because you were a weak, sad, pathetic little man, and we took pity on you. And we were damn fools the day we agreed to let you run your loaning business from us. We were so desperate for money that we ignored all the innocent blood on it and the toll it was taking on that boy, and that should shame you and I until we both join Dutch in the _rot_ and the _dirt_.”

Strauss gulped and trembled, trying one last time. “Those people made their choices, they knew the risks, so in a way they deserve- we’re teaching them-”

“And we made _our choices_ ,” Hosea sneered. “What do you say, Strauss? Should I ride out right now and bring the Pinkertons here? Line us all up in front of a firing squad? In a way, we deserve it, right?”

Strauss was rendered speechless.

Hosea narrowed his eyes. “Arthur is right to be disgusted by you. You disgust me too.” He let go of Strauss’s throat and backed away, letting the man sink to the ground and tremble, blood still trickling down his face. He turned and stared out at all the members of the gang. _“We should all be disgusted at ourselves!”_ he yelled, then turned back to Strauss. “You better find a damn good apology for that boy. You owe him that much.” And with that, he stormed off to tack and mount up on Silver Dollar.

“Hosea,” Swanson said anxiously, scampering up to Hosea as he swung up into the saddle, “where are you going?”

_“Out.”_

Swanson winced. “You should take someone with you. And do you have an idea of where you’re going? A direction?”

Silver Dollar was absorbing Hosea’s emotions like a sponge, and the stallion flattened his ears and dug at the ground with his hoof as Hosea glared at Swanson. “ _Special privilege,_ I can go out alone ‘cause I set the rule. And I don’t fucking know, just - _out,_ so I can fucking breathe.”

He was about to spur Silver Dollar when a hand on his knee made him snap his gaze down to his other side. His breath was punched out of him at the sight of John, looking up at him with a pinched expression and wide eyes.

“ _Hosea,_ ” the boy ground out. “ _C’mon,_ stop acting crazy.”

It was like all the wind was taken out of Hosea’s sails. Hands tightening on the reins, he took a deep breath before resting a hand on John’s shoulder. “You’re right. I’ll…” he racked his brain, “I’m going to Hamish’s. Go hunting maybe. I’ll be fine.” He turned his head to look at Swanson and squeezed his shoulder, expression softening. “Thank you both.”

Swanson’s eyes sparkled as he squeezed his hand in his own. Hosea looked back at John and the boy had relaxed some, although a muscle in his jaw was still ticking. John squeezed his knee and said, “Be back by sundown, will ya?”

Hosea huffed. “Of c-”

_"Promise."_

Hosea stared at him for a long moment, frowning. "I promise." 

John sighed and patted his knee before walking off. Hosea shook his head, and after tipping his hat at Swanson, he urged Silver Dollar into a canter, away from the trigger-wire tension of the homestead and the image of Arthur’s wounded eyes, out into nature.

O’Creighs Run was just coming into view when he passed a campfire off the side of the trail, where a figure in a fine suit and top hat was stooping. Hosea tensed and leaned back hard in the saddle, making Silver Dollar skid to a stop and toss his head with an alarmed grunt. He urgently wheeled the horse around and spurred him towards the fire.

“It’s a fine morning, isn’t it, Hosea?” the strange man asked casually, stoking his fire with a long stick.

Hosea swallowed back the rage that bubbled back to the surface like a pot of boiling water. He dismounted Silver Dollar and stepped closer to the dark figure. “All right. Enough games. Where do I know you from? Is it St. Louis? San Francisco?” His mind flashed back to Dutch’s episode in California. If it was because of this man…

The strange man looked up over his shoulder at Hosea and huffed a mirthless laugh. “You’re _famous_ , Hosea,” he said, his voice carrying a distinctly cool, patronizing note. “You’re the man responsible for the Saint Denis Massacre.” He slowly stood up and turned to face him. “ _You’re_ a man who decided right and wrong. Between a man and _death_. Between the Wapiti and the U.S. Army.”

Hosea stared down the man, eyes narrowing a hair. “What does that make you?”

The strange man’s brow eased upwards into a sympathetic arch. “You know, I _admire you,_ Hosea. I hope I can be as good of a father to my boy as you are to yours.”

Hosea’s vision slowly turned red. It took everything in his power to not react, to not move. All of his possible reactions instead manifested as a stinging wetness in his eyes.

The strange man lazily circled around behind Hosea’s shoulder. “You kill people so _easily…_ yet you take on the burden of raising and protecting children, not even of your own blood. That’s very curious.”

Hosea carefully, painstakingly turned to stare directly into the strange man’s dark eyes. “You have no right to judge me,” he hissed. “Only my sisters and brothers and children have that right. Them and the widows and orphans I’ve made.”

“Yes, they do. And they shall.”

The two men continued to stare at each other, the temperature of the air dropping a degree.

“Anyway,” the strange man sighed, turning and walking away, “I hear a stagecoach disappeared in Roanoke Ridge a few days ago. An acquaintance of yours went to investigate, something about the caves around Butcher’s Creek. _Nasty business._ ” He knelt down and continued tending his fire. “If you leave right now, you might just be able to save a life.” He paused and met Hosea’s eyes again. “Or take one. I’ll see you around, Hosea.”

“Go fuck yourself,” Hosea spat, but he was already vaulting up into Silver Dollar’s saddle. With a harsh “ _Hyah!_ ” he spurred the stallion into a sprinting gallop past O’Creigh’s Run, past Hamish’s cabin, and into the dark shadowy trees of Roanoke Ridge.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Just a little fun, sweet fact: the scene with Silver Dollar where Hosea gets a horse-hug was inspired by a nearly identical interaction I had with my own horse. I was feeling nauseous and upset from dehydration and the smell of fly spray rather than a PTSD attack, but he untied his rope from the hitching rail with his mouth, came over to me, supported my weight and then hugged me to his chest with his head. Long story short, horses are the best animals.
> 
>  **1\. Dutch van der Linde's Last Stand**  
>  **2\. Escape from Saint Denis**  
>  **3\. Escape from Lemoyne**  
>  **4\. The Letter**  
>  **5\. Reunions**  
>  **6\. Unfinished Business**  
>  **7\. I Know You**  
>  **8\. Dreams, Omens, and Other Harbingers**  
>  9\. For Whom the Bell Tolls


	9. For Whom the Bell Tolls

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warning** for **dead animals, graphic violence, gore, implied/referenced rape, unreality(?)** due to dreams, and intense, graphic depictions and discussions of **self-harm, suicidal ideation and suicide attempts, and grief.**
> 
> [Lets out a slow breath]
> 
> So... this chapter means a lot to me. It means a lot in the sense that it's the climax and resolution of a lot of plot threads I've been spinning for a while, and it means a lot to me in the sense that it carries a lot of lessons I've yet again learned the hard way and from my therapist both. I poured my heart and soul into this chapter - it's the longest chapter yet - and I had an absolute blast writing it. And, in doing so, I realized that it's not healthy for me to continue updating this fic on a weekly schedule. I'm a family man who also heads a department and has other hobbies. There's no way in hell I'm abandoning this work - it means too much to me - but I do think I'll take a week's hiatus and then continue writing at my own pace with no schedule, so that I can take my time and nurture all the precious moments I have planned ahead instead of plowing through them like a runaway train.
> 
> I'd also like to take a moment to thank each and every single one of you who have ever left a comment. You have no idea how _all of you_ , no matter how long or short or stilted your words, make me smile and make me happy. Y'all's words mean a lot, and keep my motivational fire burning bright ♥
> 
> Songs featured in this chapter:  
> 1\. [Idumea/And Am I Born To Die?](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N2q07OSsz5Q)  
> 2\. [Down to the River to Pray](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3IttxpHDAX8)  
> 3\. [Shenandoah](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L6i5fTie20E)

In the days where he was searching out potential property for a homestead to surprise Bessie with, he did a thorough scouting of Roanoke Ridge - which swiftly informed him that, despite the gorgeous forests and bountiful game, it was full of harsh folk with harsh faces and harsh words, wracked with extreme poverty and disease, with the air and water frequently tainted by the chemical refuse pouring out of Annesburg. All of that paled in comparison to the Murfree Brood, a colossal band of psychopathic, sadistic, inbred sons of bitches who would torture, rape, kill, or eat anyone they saw. Possibly all four. Even the toughest, crustiest hicks gasped in fear at their name when Hosea had asked about them. All told him the same advice: _Don’t go near the caves in the hills._

Hosea urged Silver Dollar faster towards the looming shadows of the limestone cliffs.

After crossing the Kamassa River, he was riding for only a few minutes before he heard the faint sound of a frantic firefight in the distance. He directed Silver Dollar straight towards it, turning the horse onto a steep upwards path towards a cliff-face, marred by sheer drops and thick trees. He quietly eased his stallion to slow down as they approached the top of the hill, pulling out his carbine repeater from his saddle to sling over his shoulder. The gunfire stopped, and he quickly dismounted Silver Dollar and hissed at him to run before crouching into the bushes.

A great, hooping, victorious holler reverberated out from the rocks. Hosea quickly made his way to the top of the ridge and looked down to see a rocky clearing in front of a great cave opening. Massive unlit torches surrounded the clearing, which was spotted with all manner of crates and massive dried pools of blood caked into the rock. A gutted stagecoach was parked at the side, and across from it was some strange idol made out of sticks and skinned human body parts. A cage sat near the entrance, holding a charred human body. He spotted four dead Murfrees outside, spread around two dead geldings - one with its chest split open from a shotgun wound, still oozing warm blood onto the stone, and the other with a hatchet embedded in its head.

From amidst the roaring whoops and laughter echoing from the cave started up a crazed, panicked, animalistic scream. Hosea quickly skidded down the hillside and hurried in a half-crouch towards the entrance of the cave, drawing both of Dutch’s Schofields.

More Murfree bodies littered the entrance, shot cleanly and with precision either in their head or in the chest. Hosea hurried on, casing as much as he could of his surroundings as his heart thundered in his chest. He was able to make out the scream as a man’s, young in age, and after a few seconds a young woman’s scream joined in, making the Murfrees’ mocking whoops and hollers grow louder. Hosea could take a few guesses as to what was happening deeper in the cave, and his stomach churned at the thought, making him speed to a near-sprint towards the noise.

He passed by a fork in the cave and threw the side tunnel only a cursory glance, where he locked eyes with a Murfree, standing in the shadows. The man balked at him, then grinned a rotten-toothed smile as he drew a sawed-off shotgun and fired. Hosea barely managed to duck behind the cover of the cave wall, which lost a chunk of itself in sparking dust and gravel from the buckshot.

 _“We got another guest, boys!”_ the one from the side-entrance bellowed.

A great roar of battle cries rose from the main tunnel that Hosea had been trying to go down, and he saw torch-lights flicker closer from the distant dark. Hosea bared his teeth and whipped around the scarred corner, aiming, firing, and blowing a hole through the first Murfree’s head in less than half a second. He barreled forwards and around the next corner towards more sounds of stomping feet, raising his pistols and firing the moment he saw a filthy denim-clad body running towards him. Everything went relatively fine until he counted down the bullets in each Schofield from three, to two, to one, to zero. He frantically slid behind the cover of a crate, shoving his side-arm in its holster and flicking open the chamber of the main. He only managed to shove in one bullet before a Murfree ran around the crate and lifted a shotgun barrel towards him. With a flick of his wrist, Hosea shut the pistol chamber and flung himself onto his back, raising the gun and firing it through the Murfree’s head just as the shotgun blasted the crate apart where _his_ head had been only a second before.

Another Murfree appeared from the side and Hosea dropped the Schofield so he could catch the corpse of the first as it fell on top of him, rotating so that the bullet fired from the second’s gun lodged itself in the corpse’s spine, grabbing the dropped shotgun in the same movement. He continued to roll, letting go of the body in favor of yanking down the shotgun’s forend to load the next shot, and fired the moment the second Murfree was visible, eyes still wide from seeing that he wasn’t dead. He threw the shotgun away as the man was unmade into red mist, fumbled for Dutch’s blood-covered Schofield, and shoved it back securely in its holster before slinging his carbine off his shoulder. He used the rifle to push himself to his feet, pulled the hammer back, and continued to hurry towards the agonized screams.

He finally rounded the corner and saw a pack of three bent over a naked, writhing young man with tears pouring down his face, trying to shackle him to the wall. Hosea aimed and fired, catching one through the throat, then ducked behind cover as the other two screeched _“Cousin!”_ and leaped towards him. He desperately tried to reload the repeater before they rounded the corner and was barely able to do so, only managing to fire through the first one’s stomach in his haste to get the shot off. The man reeled and fired, but missed - Hosea took the chance to charge, drawing his hunting knife and plunging it into the man’s heart. The third one tackled him and slammed him onto the stone, making him drop the repeater, and punched him in the face. Hosea threw out his hand to desperately grab the dropped revolver of the man he stabbed, his fingers fumbling with it long enough for the third to get another punch in before he finally grabbed it and got his fingers on the hammer and the trigger. He rammed the barrel into the Murfree’s side and fired _onetwothree-_

The man screamed and fell off him, flailing around in his own blood, and Hosea pushed himself onto his knees and fired once more into the man’s head, making the flails finally stop. Hosea coughed, shuddered, and spat out a mouthful of blood from where he cut his cheek on a tooth. 

“Fuck,” he panted, “holy shit- fuck- _augh_ , fuck-”

The young man’s screaming brought him back to what he was doing. He turned his gaze and saw the man - his brain wanted to supply _boy_ \- scramble away from him and curl into a ball, sobbing “Stop God please stop stop _STOP-_ ”

Hosea looked around quickly and listened, but there was no more movement, no more footsteps. The whole cave had become silent save for the young man’s wails and the screams of a woman deeper in. Hosea heaved a breath and threw the worn cattleman away, crawling carefully towards the young man with an outstretched, defusing hand. “Hey, hey, hey, I’m on your side, it’s okay, you’re safe now. Here, see?” He quickly fumbled off his coat and wrapped it around the young man’s naked form, buttoning it up. “You’re all right, son.”

The young man threw himself forward to cling to Hosea, wailing, “They- T-They were-”

“I know.”

Suddenly, the man’s gaze snapped up to a point above Hosea’s shoulder and he screamed _“Watch out!”_

Hosea whirled around just in time to see a machete arcing down towards him. He jerked and threw his hands up, catching the arm as it was coming down, the machete blade hovering an inch over his head. The Murfree sneered and pushed _harder_ , and Hosea quickly started becoming overpowered-

With a yell of effort, Hosea threw himself on his side, dragging the Murfree along with him and away from the young man. The Murfree quickly scrambled on top of him to kneel on his stomach, and they started up the battle of strength again, the blade slowly sinking closer and closer towards Hosea’s throat as Hosea’s arms quaked and trembled and slowly folded despite his best and most desperate efforts. Twenty years ago - ten, even - he would have easily overpowered the psychopath, but now, his eyes slowly widened at the realization that this was how he was going to die.

They widened even more when he realized that, buried underneath his roaring survival instinct, there was a part of himself that… _wanted_ it.

That ached for the blade to _finish it_.

The young man suddenly barreled into the Murfree’s side with a frenzied scream, and the two went rolling until they knocked against the cave wall. Hosea instantly drew Dutch’s Schofield and flicked the chamber open, shoving a bullet in and flicking it shut just in time to raise it and fire the bullet through the Murfree’s head where he’d pinned the young man face-down to the floor and was about to bring the machete down for a killing blow. 

The Murfree slumped down, dead, the machete skittering onto the stone, and the young man desperately scrambled out from under him with a series of shrieking whimpers. Hosea busied himself shoving the gun full of six rounds as the young man dragged himself over to a body in a suit and began wailing, “Jameson! Jameson, wake up! Jameson! _Jim!”_

With a grunt, Hosea pushed himself up to his feet and flicked the chamber shut again. He plucked his hunting knife out of the body it was embedded in, wiped it off on his pants, and tucked it back in its sheath. He saw his hat on the floor and quickly returned it to his head as well before hurrying towards the woman’s screams. He found her in a cage, dirty and faintly covered in blood, wearing nothing but her undergown. When he approached with his gun drawn, she gasped and fell on her rear, skittering backwards and whimpering “Stay away from me.”

Hosea quickly threw a hand up and went through the same process again. “Hey, it’s okay. You’re okay. I’m not going to hurt you, I’m here to help.” 

“Please don’t kill me.”

He looked from side to side, and when there was still no movement or sound, he holstered his gun and drew his hunting knife. The woman unleashed a piercing, blood-curdling scream and pressed herself flat against the far wall.

“Ma’am,” Hosea said gently, holding his free hand out again. “Please. I’m not going to hurt you.” God, she looked so young. Quickly, he cut through the thick rope holding her cage shut, and when he opened the door, she was still beside herself, hyperventilating and choking and squeaking, clutching her chest and her throat, eyes a thousand miles away. Hosea instantly recognized it as a panic attack. Sheathing his knife, he hurried forward and crushed her against his chest in a firm, encompassing _squeeze_ , surrounding her in heavy, soothing pressure. “It’s okay, sweetie. You’re okay. Shh shh sh sh sh.”

Slowly, her hyperventilation slowed down into rugged breaths, and her muscles unwound from where they’d been cinched like a vice. She blinked at him, eyes still foggy, but present. She swallowed thickly, then nodded slowly at him.

“I’m gonna get you out of here,” he promised. “Come on, now.” Carefully, he let go of her and walked back towards the weeping of the young man. The young woman followed him cautiously, walking on the balls of her feet, staring around the cave like a deer in the middle of a clearing.

He found the young man draped over the suited figure’s chest, brokenly croaking, _“Jim, God, no, Jim, no- they killed him, they killed Jim, God-”_

Hosea reached down and gently tugged the young man to his feet. “We need to _leave_ , son. I’m sorry for your loss, but we’ve gotta _go._ ”

With a wet hiccup, the young man nodded, numbly limping after him alongside the young woman, looking back repeatedly at his friend with strained whimpers. Hosea picked up his dropped carbine repeater and slung it back over his shoulder on the way out.

When they finally emerged into the sunlight of the day, Hosea cased the clearing for about ten seconds before whistling for Silver Dollar. The stallion came cantering up to them, snorting and tossing his head at all the foul smells. Hosea turned to the young woman and gently asked her, “Where are you from, dear?”

She took in a shuddering breath. “Annesburg.”

Hosea frowned but nodded. A five mile journey wasn’t inconsequential, but it was doable. He turned to the young man and began asking, “And y-...”

He stopped himself when he saw the man’s face in the light of the sun. It struck him as incredibly familiar. He remembered the strange man’s words: _an acquaintance of yours_ . Hosea squinted and searched the man’s face, seeing the man doing the same right back at him, going through the same experience. _Jameson_ , he’d called the other man. The man in a suit. Hosea mentally removed the dirt smudges and tear-tracks, tried to put the young man in a suit, to put a bowler hat on top of his head.

_Agent Abraham Bernstein, Sir. Of the Pinkerton Detective Agency._

Hosea’s and Bernstein’s eyes widened at the same time in recognition, simultaneously filling with the cold fire of hatred.

 _“You,”_ Bernstein hissed. “You’re Hosea Matthews.” 

Hosea’s mouth twisted into a condescending, sneering smile. He summoned up the reedy old voice he’d used to say, “Took you long enough to realize, sonny.”

Bernstein trembled and clenched his fists as the young woman flinched away from them to curl up against Silver Dollar’s side, crying. “I should kill you right now.”

Hosea leaned in. “And I could just leave you here for the Brood to pick back up and finish what they started.” 

Terror flickered in Bernstein’s eyes, raw and so, so young. Hosea’s expression broke, softening - his rage, his bitterness, his hatred, his spite, his petty urge for revenge all broke like a levee and bled out of him, leaving behind only soft paternal tenderness.

Hosea let all the tension ease out of his body and leaned away. “But I’m not going to do that.” He turned, and with a few gentle hushed words, he helped lift the young woman up and into Silver Dollar’s saddle. He turned back and grabbed the shellshocked Bernstein by the waist, heaving him roughly up and onto Silver Dollar’s rump behind the saddle, then met the boy’s eyes. “I _never would._ ”

Bernstein stared at him for a long moment, like he was trying to solve a puzzle. He pressed his lips into a thin line, then quietly said in a dull monotone, “You’re bleeding.”

Hosea followed the boy’s gesture to his right side, where he saw a deep rich bloom of scarlet slowly growing through his shirt and vest, separate from all the blood smeared over the rest of his clothes. At the sight of it, Hosea hissed as the pain suddenly registered, stinging and sparking across his ribs. He quickly pressed a hand over it and pushed to apply pressure to the bullet wound, gasping and grunting in pain. 

“Thank you,” he said roughly. “I’ll treat it later. Right now, we need to get the hell out of here.” 

The young woman and Bernstein both anxiously nodded. Hosea took Silver Dollar’s reins in his hand, nodded his thanks to the horse, and set off at a brisk, staggered walk, still clutching his wound.

After a few minutes of walking, cutting due East through the trees as much as he was able, the young woman gasped and started sobbing. 

“It’s gonna be okay,” Hosea said softly over his shoulder, speeding up into a near jog.

She whimpered. “They… they… they did, um…”

“You don’t have to say it, honey.”

Bernstein raised a hesitant hand from where he’d been clinging to the back of the saddle so he wouldn’t have to touch her. He lowered it again. “I was in there only a few minutes and I-I…” He choked on a sob. “For you to have been there for... _days…_ You… Y-you’re very strong, m-ma’am, I hope y-you know that.”

She sobbed a slight laugh. “Strong…?”

“Y-Yes, ma’am.”

She swallowed thickly and sniffled. “The others… they killed them… _They’re animals..._ ” 

Bernstein trembled and nodded, a strangled, broken noise escaping his throat as he hung his head.

Hosea frowned back at both of them. “I need you both to keep breathing, okay? No passing out on my horse here, you’ll make him worry.” He stumbled on a tree root and barely caught himself, making a bolt of pain zing through his core from his wound. He choked and gasped.

The young woman whimpered again. “Are you going to die?”

Hosea stopped and caught his breath, hissing through his teeth. With a growl of effort, he started walking again, shivering against the cold and the pain. “Not yet I’m not. God, I’m too old for this.”

Bernstein wetly sighed and wiped at his eyes. “You should treat that wound.”

Hosea slowed Silver Dollar to a stop and huffed. “You two just sit tight, okay? I’ll do this quick.”

With deft hands, he reached into his saddle bag and pulled out a bottle of alcohol, a potent health tonic, a roll of gauze, and a handkerchief. He slumped back against a tree and fumbled with the buttons of his vest and shirt, holding the things he needed in the crook of his elbow. 

The young woman stared glassy-eyed into the distance. “Why would they…” She shivered. _“Why…”_

Bernstein frowned and curled in on himself, blinking a few tears loose. He turned his head and fixed Hosea with a long, pointed look. 

Hosea glanced at him from where he was cleaning his wound and huffed.

Bernstein looked back at the young woman. “S-Some men are just evil, miss… miss…?”

“Meredith,” she whispered. “My name is Meredith.”

“Miss Meredith,” Bernstein finished. “I-I don’t know how or w-why such evil can invade men’s hearts, but it d-does. Maybe they’re just… b-born wrong.”

Hosea clenched his jaw as he quickly wrapped and cinched the gauze tightly around his middle to suppress the wound. “They’re never born like that,” Hosea corrected, voice croaking slightly from the pain. “No man is born evil. They either learn it from someone else, or they… or it’s because the world breaks them.” 

Bernstein frowned at him and narrowed his eyes. “Are you speaking from p-personal experience, Mr. Matthews?”

Hosea leaned his head back and closed his eyes as he breathed through the pain, a ginger hand held against his side. Slowly, he opened his eyes and lowered his chin to meet Bernstein’s gaze. He swallowed, keeping his head held high and level despite the mist that formed in his eyes. “Yes,” he said quietly.

A look of vague disgust formed on Bernstein’s face.

Meredith, on the other hand, looked at him with confusion. “So you’re saying that… all men are born good, but... become evil. Then… can evil be… can they go back?”

Hosea heaved himself off the tree with a grunt. “Ask our young friend here.”

Bernstein frowned softly at Meredith when the girl turned to look at him. “No,” he said tiredly. “There are some things a man can’t come back from. That’s why we need laws, and people to enforce those laws. To discourage them from getting there in the first place, and remove the men who cross the line, so that all of us can be safe.”

Meredith sniffled and looked at Hosea as he dumped the remains of his medical supplies inside his saddle bag. “Are you a lawman, Mr. Matthews?”

A sharp _“Ha!”_ was punched out of Hosea’s chest before he could stop it. “No,” he said simply. And with that, he grabbed Silver Dollar’s reins and set off at a quick pace once more.

Roughly an hour and a half later, they arrived in the main street of Annesburg. Hosea helped Meredith slide out of the saddle, and when she tearily asked him to walk with her to the front door of her home, he found he couldn’t refuse. Leaving Bernstein behind with Silver Dollar with an order for the horse to stay lest the man get any smart ideas, Hosea accompanied the girl back to her tiny house at the top of the hill, where she was tearily united with her mother. They tried to offer money to him, but he politely refused and urged them to instead focus on being together. With the door shut, Hosea hurried back down the hill, frowning at how his right side was going numb and spots were appearing in his vision around the blossom of agony pulsing in his side.

When he finally returned to Bernstein, the man was still standing - well, bent over and groaning - beside Silver Dollar, albeit a fair bit more dusty and with a large hoof-shaped bruise forming on his leg.

Hosea raised a judgemental eyebrow at Silver Dollar. “Hasn’t he been through enough?” Silver Dollar glared at him and snorted.

Bernstein growled and continued clutching at his leg. “I tried to grab one of your guns so I could _kill you_ , and your damn horse kicked me.” He looked up at Hosea and bared his teeth. “I won’t be your prisoner.” Hosea heaved out a long sigh, then reached into his satchel and pulled out a wad of cash, counting it out. Bernstein continued rambling, “You can hold me hostage, but the Pinkertons know better, they won’t fall for it, and you won’t break me either, I won’t tell you anything and I’ll never betray the Agency, so it doesn’t matter where you take me or what you do to me, I’m not afraid to die-”

“Here,” Hosea said gently, holding out four hundred dollars to the man. “This should be enough to get you a decent horse and some new clothes. You should get a room for the night and clean yourself up, get yourself to a doctor and get out of here.”

Bernstein eyed the money like it was poison. He snapped his gaze up to Hosea and spat, “I won’t fall for your tricks! I know you’re manipulating me, I’m not stupid!”

“It’s not a trick, son.” 

_“Don’t call me son,”_ Bernstein snarled.

Hosea felt a familiar pressure building between his temples and spearing through one of his eyes. “You know, if you wanted to escape, all you would’ve had to do was scream for help. I also know that you never would’ve shot me. You’re not fooling anyone.” Bernstein made a face and looked away, blushing in shame.

“I’m not scared of you,” Bernstein whispered, body and voice trembling.

Hosea huffed and shook his head, frowning and squinting at the man. “I reckon… you’re as curious about me as I am about you. And that’s why you haven’t made a run for it yet.” He leaned down to catch Bernstein’s eyes. “Am I right?”

Bernstein glared at him, tears forming in his eyes. “You’re a monster.”

“I could say the same about you.”

Bernstein huffed and straightened. “ _I_ don’t murder _innocent people._ ”

Hosea lifted his chin. “Neither do the Van der Lindes. That’s not our way.”

Before Hosea was even finished talking, Bernstein started laughing, shaking his head incredulously and staring around at the dust-clogged streets of Annesburg. “Oh, that’s rich. That’s funny. You think all the lawmen you slaughtered aren’t innocent? Or the Braithwaites? We also found out about Strawberry - did you know they’re bringing in men by the wagonload to replace all the good working men you butchered?”

Hosea scoffed, feeling the rage creep back in. “Ah, yes, _Strawberry_ , the work of your newest _pet_ that you lot seem all too keen on letting run around scott-free because he promised to kill us before going out to kill more. And who could forget the _pure_ , noble _Braithwaites?!_ The fine upstanding plantation legacy that was in bed with the Lemoyne Raiders and who _sold our child_ to the resident machiavellian crime lord of Saint Denis who owned the police and even put money into _your precious Agency’s coffers might I add?!”_

Bernstein’s eyes widened and he shook his head against the accusation with a snarl. Hosea heaved a rasping breath and pressed onward, red in the face, “Did you know that your dear Agency was all too happy to risk us shooting up hostages? That they fucking lynched some poor black woman who had the misfortune of holding money that touched my hand? That they dragged away a friend of mine in front of his children and tortured him and used his mixed-race family as leverage? That Andrew Milton and Edgar Ross _threatened our four-year-old boy?!_ Though I suppose that’s in character, Lord knows I’ve read enough about how the dear heroic Pinkertons made their name strikebreaking, you know, shooting up good working men committing the crime of asking for a _living goddamn wage!_ ”

Bernstein choked, “It’s more complicated than that-”

Hosea yelled over him with, “And the law- ohh, the _Law!_ You know how many tiny bodies of children or innocent non-white folk or men whose only crime was loving each other I’ve seen hanging from the damn trees in towns where the _Law_ deemed it fit for them to - how did you phrase it? Be _removed?!_ ” A cluster of three coughs tore from his chest then and he caught them in his sleeve, clutching at his side and doubling over from the pain. He couldn’t see Bernstein’s face anymore, but he cleared his throat and growled, “The way I see it, the ‘Law’ is just another gaggle of cutthroat gangs. Only difference is they’re sanctioned by the government, and you _mercenaries_ ain’t even that.”

There was silence for a long minute, save only for Bernstein’s wet, teary breathing. Hosea finally managed to stand again and was able to take in the devastated expression on the young man’s face.

Bernstein swallowed thickly and sniffled. “Jameson got a letter this morning. It said they found Willy. His brother.” Their eyes met. “His body finally floated up in the bog of Bluewater Marsh. He had a bullet between his eyes.”

All of Hosea’s rage vanished like a puff of smoke.

A soft sob escaped Bernstein’s throat. “Between that and the sighting report we got of you on that road, we know you went this way, that you’re somewhere around here. We’d heard about the stagecoach disappearing around Butcher’s Creek, and we knew about the Murfrees, but you Van der Lindes also hit nearly half the stagecoaches that go through these parts, and Jameson thought maybe you all were hiding in the caves, and I wanted to send for backup, but Jameson was beside himself with so much grief and pain…” He hiccuped. “You took his baby brother from him.”

Hosea blinked and said nothing.

Bernstein screwed his eyes shut and took a deep breath, rolling his shoulders back, then looked Hosea in the eye, his own looking hollow and lifeless. “I… I want to believe that you saved me out of the goodness of your heart. And I-I’m thankful, I am. I want to believe that there’s good in you, I really do. And I want to believe that I’m a hero, that the Law is full of heroes and that the Agency helps the people they can’t reach. But now I… I reckon I don’t much believe in anything.”

Hosea slowly and gently pushed the money into his - now Bernstein’s - coat pocket and took a step away towards Silver Dollar. With a heavy sigh, he looked at Bernstein, exhausted, leaning against his saddle. “How old are you, son?”

“Don’t call me son,” Bernstein said quietly, noncommittal. “And I’m nineteen.”

“Christ,” Hosea whispered, mostly to himself. He chewed on his words for a minute, then finally managed to get out, “Things aren’t always black and white, s-... I… The world ain’t simple, and…” 

He felt so, so, _so tired._

He sighed. “When your lot come for us, I hope I won’t see you, kid.”

Bernstein hugged his arms around his middle. “...I hope I won’t see you, either, sir.”

They both stared at each other one last time, all of their hatred and rage at each other and what they symbolized reduced to uneasy liquid in the pits of their stomachs. Hosea dragged himself up into Silver Dollar’s saddle, Bernstein turned towards the gunsmith, and they each rode and limped off into the distance.

\--

Hosea drifted in and out of consciousness in a painful, delirious fugue. The sky was growing darker and darker with thick, billowing black clouds that growled with approaching thunder. Hosea shivered violently without his coat as the wind whipped his face, yet sweat still rolled down his clammy skin. He clutched desperately at his bullet-wound to try and stifle the white flashes of agony that consumed his vision. His mind reeled and rolled and shattered in a thousand different directions - the sight of all the blood on the front of his clothes was making him feel the weight of Dutch against his arms and the mulchy trail kept flickering to blood-drenched cobblestones, yet his vision also kept swimming to play the sight of a hole appearing in front of Willy Jameson’s head over and over again, intermingled with Bessie’s echoing voice from long ago asking _What were their names? The men you’ve killed today? You should know their names if you took their lives._

A violent coughing fit jolted him back to the present and he shrieked as each cough made it feel like his wound was ripped asunder and every rib on his right side was shattered. His vision whited out for several long seconds, and when shadowy images finally floated back in front of his eyes, he was staring at the towering tips of the trees billowing in the wind against the dark gray sky as grass tickled his face. He couldn’t breathe. His lungs heaved and shuddered outwards, but no air could enter. His hands scrambled for the tin in his coat, but then icy cold realization struck him like he was dunked in a frozen pond. His panic made his lungs clench even tighter.

Silver Dollar’s nose suddenly appeared, and the stallion looked at him with huge, worried eyes as he snuffled at his chest, nosing it roughly. Hosea fumbled his hands for his friend’s cheeks and held them, focusing on the feeling of Silver Dollar’s deep breaths blowing out against his chest. His vision swam, blacked out, swam in again, and suddenly his lungs were dragging in a thin current of air. He caressed Silver Dollar’s head absently as he focused all of his energy on relaxing and breathing. After a small eternity, his lungs finally opened again just as frigid sprinkles began hitting his face.

Hosea shrugged exhausted, pleading hands at the sky. “Really?” he breathed. Silver Dollar made a sharp, high-pitched, happy noise to see him moving and talking. Hosea huffed a laugh and pressed a kiss to the stallion’s nose. “Good boy.”

Grabbing hold of Silver Dollar’s bridle and nodding, the horse made a low nicker and then heaved his head upwards, dragging Hosea back up to his feet with only a few gasps of pain. He pressed his forehead to Silver Dollar’s and scratched the horse’s ears in thanks, then warily staggered over to the saddle bag before returning to his head with two carrots and a sugar cube. When Silver Dollar was cheerily spewing sugary carrot juice out of his mouth, Hosea wiped his hand on his pants and dragged himself up into the saddle again as the sprinkles rapidly turned into rain.

Shivering, Hosea took out his pocket watch from his inner vest and popped it open, squinting at the time. He swore when he saw it was late afternoon. He snapped it shut and put it back, turning his head to look frantically around at his surroundings. “Where the _fuck_ are we?” he hissed. He leaned down and met Silver Dollar’s eyes. “Maybe the real question should be why the hell am I such a goddamn fool, huh?”

Silver Dollar snorted.

“Yeah, shut up.” With a sigh, Hosea spurred his friend into a reserved gallop, desperately hoping to encounter any kind of landmark in the next hour.

Eventually, he did, in the form of the Kamassa River. A few minutes of following it lead him to familiar territory, and he spurred Silver Dollar hard in the direction of home, racing the setting sun.

Everything else - Bernstein, the horrific images in that cave, the horrific image of Willy Jameson’s face, the ghosts of Dutch and Bessie - faded away and narrowed into a single point: John and Arthur. He’d _promised_ John that he’d be back before sundown, and if he died out in the cold and the rain and the refuse of Roanoke Ridge with his and Arthur’s last interaction having been a fight, with Arthur’s last expression being one of such _hurt…_ Well. Hosea would come back to life just to kill himself.

The guiding light of his two boys fueled him as Silver Dollar sprinted off and on through the hours it took to get out of the shadowy forest, through the winding rocky passes, out and around O’Creigh’s Run, and into the trees towards the homestead. When Silver Dollar finally trotted up the path to the homestead, it was raining so hard that they could barely see two feet in front of them, and when John’s voice cried out “Who’s there?!” Hosea couldn’t find the strength to answer. _“Who’s there?!”_ John cried again, frantic.

Hosea used the last bits of himself that weren’t numb to pull Silver Dollar to a stop. John cautiously stepped up to him, gun raised, then abruptly lowered it when he made out his face, hoarsely shrieking, “Hosea what the _hell?!”_

Hosea smiled weakly at him. “Hell’f’a’hunt’n’trip,” he wheezed, body going limp and sliding sideways out of the saddle, and then everything went black.

\--

_“Mr. Matthews! On your knees!”_

_Hosea slowly raised his hands and knelt. Agent Ross moved quickly to him and patted him down, ripping his cattleman revolvers out of his suit jacket, and Hosea was helpless to do anything except watch as a hungry, sadistic, victorious smile grew on Agent Milton’s face that spread upward to his eyes._

_He was suddenly transported to the front of the Lemoyne National Bank, Milton’s hand fisted into the collar of his shirt with his gun pointed at his head, and Hosea stared through the window at Dutch’s wide-eyed nineteen-year-old face._

_Dutch came out of the building, hands up in surrender, his face so young and still full of light, and a bloody hole appeared between his eyes shortly followed by a deafening bang. The Pinkertons were all gone and Hosea could only stare at the smoking Schofield in his hand as Dutch’s body crumpled to the ground. A gunshot fired again and suddenly it was Lenny crumpling to the ground in front of him. A gunshot fired again and suddenly he was in an old Colonial house, it was his old Smith & Wesson in his hand, and the dead eyes staring back at him were blue. _

_“What were their names?” Bessie’s sorrowful voice asked him._

_The scene changed and he was lost in a pitch black forest, barely able to navigate through the inky shadows. Screams sounded all around him in the distance, and he couldn’t figure out which ones to run away from and which ones to run towards._

_Arthur's fifteen-year-old voice rang out, yelling and echoing in the distance, its tone raw and scared and angry, “Just admit you don't care about me! That you don't want me around! I know you think I'm a burden!"_

_Hosea whirled around with a choked "No" to find him but there was nothing there. He sprinted off in its general direction, only to hear John's young voice from somewhere to his right. He stopped and snapped his head around, desperately searching the shadows that echoed his resigned voice, which reverberated “I know who your favorite is.”_

_He staggered forwards, shaking his head, then froze when he heard Arthur’s voice from behind him, sounding like it was coming from a tunnel. “Sometimes I wish you woulda stayed gone.”_

_He turned around, tears forming in his eyes as he reached out his hands, and then from his left came John’s echoing voice, hurt and bitter. “Oh,_ now _you talk to me. Spare me the lecture and stop pretending like you give a damn.”_

_“I-I...” he said brokenly, sinking down to his knees in the dark soil._

_Dutch’s voice came to him then, close behind and towering over him, cruel and mocking. “You act all high and mighty, but we both know the truth. You need me as much as I need you. You are_ nothing _without me. You hear me?! Nothing! You’re not better than me!”_

_He sobbed, "Stop."_

_"You think you can play at being a father to those two boys now? That you can take them away from me?! You're deluding yourself. Their loyalty is to_ me. _They love me_ more! _They always have, and they always will, because you already failed!"_

_"Stop it," he begged._

_“You’re a monster,” came Bernstein’s voice._

_Gunshots started up all around him and he pressed himself flat against the ground. From amongst the din, he heard Catherine Braithwaite’s broken screams at the sight of her dead children. Dozens of fearful and frantic yells from Pinkertons and lawmen alike joined her. Then thousands of screams, an all-encompassing symphony, roared up everywhere in the forest alongside a growing flame that began consuming the trees at a supernatural pace._

_The hot wind carried Arthur’s voice. “You know how many folk I saw die right in front of me?! How many widows we’ve made?! What we’ve reduced good and caring folk to?!”_

_His own voice rang through the boughs as they snapped and crumbled in flame. “We’ve become a bunch of killers, I mean it.”_

_A silver fox sprinted out of the flames and away, its tail whipping behind it as it serpentined through the trees. Hosea pushed himself to his feet and rushed after it, bobbing and weaving, frantically trying to keep sight of it in the dark. He failed, losing track of it amongst the gnarled twisted forms of the trees._

_He stumbled forward into sudden pitch blackness, not able to see or feel a single tree. He turned around, and instead of a pursuing fire there was a mirror, hanging in the void._

_He swallowed thickly. Slowly, with cautious, hesitant steps, he approached it. When he finally got close, it was his reflection, but - younger. Thirty years younger. Old and worn hazel eyes blinked at young and cold ones, framed in a smooth, chiseled face under a head of pale blonde hair. He blinked again, but caught the blink of his reflection. His younger face slowly raised his brow and smiled while Hosea frowned and widened his eyes, stepping back. His reflection did not._

_Instead, he saw the reflection of his younger self carefully lift a finger to his lips with a languid “Shhhh.” The diamondback rattlesnake slithered up his reflection’s arm and across the back of his shoulders, curling slightly around his neck, relaxed and at ease. Hosea’s eyes flitted back up to that of his reflection’s, and his reflection opened his mouth to say, in both his younger and older voice, in the voices of all of his loved ones, of Bernstein, of the Strange Man, and of countless nameless strangers:_

**_You’re a snake._ **

Hosea opened his eyes.

He was met with the sight of the house’s ceiling. He slowly looked down and saw that he was in the second bedroom, in the bed that was supposed to be John’s and Abigail’s and Jack’s, covered in roughly five separate blankets with his head nested in warm towels. The doorless door frame had a curtain rod awkwardly nailed to it, with one of the living-room curtains forming a makeshift door to give some semblance of privacy.

“Hosea…?”

He flicked his eyes to the side and found both Arthur and John sitting beside him, looking at him with pale yet hopeful faces. Hosea's stomach and heart dropped to the floor. Arthur still held the same sickly blush, and there was a faint rasp in his breathing.

 _All your fault,_ came the old familiar voice, and Hosea was suddenly filled with the urge to bash his head open against the bed frame. Instead, he turned his head away from them and clenched his jaw.

“Hosea!” John leaned over the bed towards him and sighed in relief. “I-I was almost sure you’d died right in front of me, old man!”

_You scared them._

John reached out to touch him and Hosea violently flinched. The boy tucked his hand back and gently went, “Shit, does it hurt?”

_You deserve to be hurt._

Hosea shuddered. No words came to him.

Arthur cleared his throat roughly and poked his head out the curtain. “Miss Grimshaw, you’d better get in here, Hosea’s bein’ crotchety!” He smirked back at Hosea teasingly. Hosea looked away from him, burying his head in the pillow.

Susan ripped aside the curtain and planted her hands on either side of the door frame. “You stupid, _stupid_ little man! What kind of stunt did you pull?! We _know_ you didn’t go see Hamish at all yesterday, yet you come riding back in the middle of a storm covered in blood, half your face one big bruise, half _dead_ , with a bullet hole in your side! Now _what_ are we supposed to make of that?!”

_Stupid. Worthless. Burden._

Hosea lifted a clawed hand to his head, silently begging the voice to stop.

John’s voice carried a frown in it. “Was it Pinkertons? ...Micah?”

Hosea sucked a sharp breath in through his nose and trembled for a moment before jerking his head no.

Susan huffed. “Well then what was it?!” When he still didn’t answer, she slapped her hand against the doorframe. _“Speak!”_

Hosea fisted his hand into his hair and pulled just enough to cause pain. John reached out to touch his arm and he flinched again, making the boy retract it once more.

Arthur huffed an uneasy laugh, a soft, tiny cough escaping with it. “...You’re actin’ kinda crazy, Hosea.”

_They’d be better off without you._

Hosea’s breaths picked up into near-panting.

John frowned at him again. “Hey, are you all righ-”

_You should have died._

_“Shut up!”_ Hosea snapped. He moved swiftly to sit up and spasmed to a stop at the bloom of pain in his side, making the towels wrapped around his head fall off. He looked down at himself and realized he was naked save for the fresh bandages around his middle, the blankets around his hips barely concealing his decency. It felt like he was trapped, cornered, chained to the bed against his will, and Susan blocking the door wasn't helping. Tears stung his eyes and he made an animalistic noise of frustration, fisting his hand into his hair again.

John cringed away from him and Arthur hesitantly started “Hey, don’t be talkin’ to him like that, he was only-”

He needed to be hurt. Of that he was sure. He _needed_ to be hurt, if he was hurt, then the voice would shut up, and he’d also get what he deserved. In an instant, his hand went from his hair to his side and tried to _dig-_

Six hands were suddenly on him, grabbing his wrists, his arms, his shoulders, pushing him back down into the bed. He fought, screamed, tried to bash his head against the headboard, but that just made Arthur and John half crawl on top of him, flipping him onto his stomach and pinning his arms behind his back.

“Hosea what the _hell?!”_ John repeated, his voice holding the same note of panic as last night. He heard Arthur and Susan swallow thickly, unnerved.

They were seeing everything he had never wanted them to see. Everything that he had carefully tucked away, swallowed down, hid behind closed doors or tent flaps or at the bottom of grassy hills. They’d seen snippets, sure, all of them had at this point, but he’d never had the shame of losing the battle against the sickening fingers that had wrapped around his brain and refused to let go ever since his and Bessie’s baby had come out still and silent and cold. Not since that hellish year where he wasted away around camp waiting to die. Afterwards, only Dutch had seen him so broken, _pathetic_ . The others were never supposed to _see_ . He was supposed to be _past this._

Hosea suddenly went limp and wept.

“I… what…”

“You broke him, Miss Grimshaw!”

“I did _no such thing!_ ”

“Hosea? Hosea…?”

“It’s like he had one of your fits, Arthur.”

“Well he’s never had one _before!_ ”

“Can we stop talkin’ about him like he’s not here?!”

“Oh, excuse me- Hey Hosea? Have you gone _mad?!”_

“That’s a little-!”

“Oh fuck off Grimshaw- _Hosea?_ Hey, come on. Come back to us. It’s okay.”

What the hell did he do so wrong to make Arthur feel like he had to comfort him? Hosea gritted his teeth and slammed his eyes shut, taking in a deep, shuddering breath. He clenched then unclenched his fists, slowly, forcing his breathing to slow down. He refused to be shamed any more than he already was.

“That’s it! There we go. That’s it, ‘Sea, snap out of it.”

After three long, deep breaths, Hosea finally tilted his head to look back at the concerned, wide-eyed faces of Susan, Arthur, and John.

John swallowed, thickly. “What was all that about, Hosea?”

Hosea broke their gaze to stare at the wall. _You don’t deserve them._ He screwed his eyes shut and shook his head. “I’m just… tired…” he croaked.

Arthur hesitantly let go of one of his wrists to put a wary hand on his back. “Tired as in… normal tired, or tired as in… you know… the way Dutch got… ‘tired’?”

Hosea huffed a laugh out his nose. Arthur made a low noise of understanding, and Hosea felt rather than saw the three above him share a concerned look.

John awkwardly cleared his throat. “Do you… wanna…” he hesitated for a long moment, like he was about to pull out his own tooth with a pair of pliers, “...talk about it?”

Hosea opened his eyes again to stare blankly at the wall. “I want you all to forget this ever happened. I’m fine. I am _fine._ ”

Susan scoffed. “Now you even _sound_ like Dutch.”

Hosea winced like he'd been shot.

After a long beat, Arthur warily asked, “Can we trust ya enough to let go of your arms, then?”

“...Yes.”

Slowly, carefully, the three of them all removed their hands, sitting on the edge of the bed instead. Hosea dragged in one last shuddering breath before he rolled himself over onto his back and gingerly pushed himself into sitting up, tugging the blanket to make sure it didn’t go below his hips. When he finally managed to sit upright, he panted for a bit and lifted a hand to cradle his wound - the other three jolted like they were going to body slam him to the floor - so he cringed his hand away with a weak laugh.

He swallowed and wet his lips. He blinked, then met all of their eyes. “I’m… not. Okay,” he confessed. “Physically, I am. Or I will be. A flesh wound in my side and a little hypothermia is minor shit.” He held a finger up when all three opened their mouths. “There’s this… man… God, this really is going to make me sound crazy.” He looked up at the ceiling. “A few days ago, there was this strange man in a suit standing in front of Bessie’s grave. I think he’s stalking us. Stalking me. I ran into him yesterday and he told me there were some folk in trouble in Murfree country, so I went.”

“Alone…?” John asked.

“Idiot,” Susan hissed.

Arthur leaned forward. “Why didn’t you come get one of us?”

Hosea frowned and looked over at him. “If I would’ve waited any longer, they would’ve killed this young man, barely out of boyhood. Lenny’s age. I rode as hard as I could and I still didn’t make it in time to stop-” he cut himself off and dragged a hand down his face with a sigh. “Took a bullet while clearing out a cave of those psychopaths. I gave the kid my coat. Took him and the only other poor surviving girl to Annesburg. I don’t regret it, and I’d do it again,” he asserted.

Susan narrowed her eyes. _“Idiot.”_

John shook his head as Arthur’s eyes glassed over, jiggling his leg. “What’s this about a strange man? Do you think he’s a Pinkerton? Do we need to leave?”

Hosea rubbed the back of his neck. “No, I don’t think he’s part of that. He said he’s an acquaintance of Dutch’s, that Dutch had some kind of debt to him or stole something from him or I don’t know what the hell fool thing he keeps going on about. Dutch never spoke about anything like that, and we told each other everything.” The man’s letter crossed his mind, making his expression sour. “Almost everything. But when it came to threats to the gang? He wouldn’t keep something like that from me. It’s why I’m afraid he isn’t r...”

He trailed off at the sight of Arthur, even paler than he already was, eyes unseeing yet wide and wet, his breathing shallow. Hosea leaned towards him. “Arthur?” he asked gently. The boy was a million miles away. He reached out a hand to rest over Arthur’s, making the boy violently jerk. 

Arthur blinked and let out a held breath, shaking his head and looking at him. “Huh?” Susan, John, and Hosea looked at him expectantly. “I’m sorry, what were y’all saying?”

Hosea offered him a rueful smile. “That I’ve gone crazy,” he said, a soft note of humor leaking into his voice. He squeezed the boy’s hand gently, then let go.

Arthur nodded sagely. “Ah.”

Hosea kept a gentle, worried gaze on him for a few seconds more, then relaxed with a sigh to look at the other two. “Long story short, I haven’t been right in the head. Haven’t been for a long while now. There’s a lot of things I need to talk about, but not with you. I’m willing to admit I’ve got a problem, I’m not too proud for that-... anymore, but I will not - _not_ , you hear me? - talk about it with any of you.” He looked at his two boys. “I’m your… your guardian. It ain’t your job to hold me together, and it shames me that you’ve had to see me this way. That isn’t to say I ain’t comfortable talking with you or coming to you two about things, I am and I will, but I will never, _ever_ , put all of my shit on you. I refuse to walk the same path Dutch did. Do you understand?”

Arthur and John slowly nodded.

Hosea took a deep breath. “Maybe I’ll talk to you boys about what’s been going on later, but not now, okay? I want…” He closed his eyes and steeled himself before opening them again. “I want to talk with Swanson about it first. Okay?”

Arthur, John, and Susan all shared another look, this time with visible relief washing over their features. All three nodded.

Susan placed a gentle hand on his knee. “Should I go get him?”

Hosea frowned and leaned around her shoulder to peer at the couch, spying Mary-Beth gazing into the room with big doe-eyes. When she caught him looking, she jumped and tossed herself to the other end of the couch.

Hosea sighed. “Is there any chance we can have some privacy?”

Arthur, John, and Susan shared another look. Susan tapped a thoughtful finger on her mouth before saying, “Trelawny’s sleeping like the dead in his bedroom, and I can persuade his wife and children to go outside and interact with folk. They’ve been getting real close with Jack, Tilly, and Lenny, it’s rather cute actually.” She blinked when she realized what she’d said and scowled to make up for it. “It’s also about time for Mary-Beth to start trying to use her damn crutch and stop being a whiny damsel. Her fever broke and her color came back yesterday morning. So yes, we can give you the house.”

Hosea huffed a laugh and called out, “Good work recovering, Mary-Beth!”

Her small, embarrassed voice answered back with a “Thank you…?”

The four in the bedroom chuckled. Susan patted his knee, then rose and strode out the door.

Fifteen minutes later, after the Trelawnys and Mary-Beth were all gently shepherded out the door by Susan, the three men heard the front door open, then shut. Careful, steady footsteps approached the doorway, and then Swanson’s face appeared. Hosea took in the man’s freshly washed appearance, the way his hair was cleanly combed back and tamed and smooth, his moustache clean and looking soft and dignified rather than ratty and dripping with alcohol. His clothes were neat and clean, complimenting his frame rather than rumpling it with rough soiled edges. His eyes, ever anxious, held a gentle determination in them now, shining with clarity.

“Hello, old friend,” Swanson greeted softly from the doorway.

Hosea smiled tiredly at him and then looked at John and Arthur. “You two should get out of here. No need to babysit me anymore.”

Arthur and John glanced at each other, then hesitantly nodded. Each of them reached out and patted his foot through the covers as they passed, smiling back at him, before stepping past Swanson to move through the living space and out the front door, shutting it behind them.

Hosea and Swanson stared at each other for a long minute, both of them hesitant. Finally, Hosea said, “Before I bare my entire soul to you, Reverend, you mind helping me un-bare my ass?”

Swanson giggled. “Oh, I reckon I can do that.”

With gentle hands and strong arms, Swanson helped maneuver Hosea to the edge of the bed and fetched him a fresh set of clothes. He helped Hosea lift his legs into his drawers and pants, then pulled them up to Hosea’s hands so he could finish pulling them up and over his hips by himself with only a little help from Swanson to lift his weight up off the mattress. After Hosea was finished buttoning his trousers, Swanson held out a shirt, which Hosea shrugged on graciously and buttoned quickly, not bothering to tuck it in.

When he finished the last button, he rested his hands on the mattress and took a long, steadying breath. Swanson gently sat down beside him and put a warm and heavy hand on his back. “Better?” he asked gently.

Hosea huffed. “Much better.” He side-eyed Swanson with an impish look. “Hope the view didn’t disappoint.” Swanson blushed to his ears and sputtered, making Hosea laugh weakly. 

Swanson gently swatted him. “You are the same as ever, you devilish man.”

“You would know!”

Both of them chuckled at each other and shared a fond look. Slowly, both of their grins fell, and Hosea looked away

Swanson rubbed Hosea’s back slightly. “Whenever you’re ready… I’m ready to listen,” he said quietly.

Hosea was silent for several long minutes, folding and refolding his hands. Finally, he sighed. “I don’t know where to start.”

Swanson brought his other hand forward to firmly grasp Hosea’s knee. The hand on his back grew heavier. “Well…” Swanson said hesitantly. “Maybe we can… define the problem.” Hosea glanced at him and gave a small nod. “Would you like me to start? Hearing others describe what I’ve been doing always brought me the greatest clarity.”

Hosea hummed. “Sounds good as anything.”

Swanson took a steadying breath, bit his lip, and fixed Hosea with a worried look. “You’ve been acting in… concerning ways. Susan told me that you had some kind of episode the day we first moved in here. That you destroyed some of Dutch’s things. I know that burying Dutch must have been… very hard on you. That having to live in _this place_ every day must be very hard on you. I know that you were up in the middle of the night the other day wearing Dutch’s clothes, and that the night after that you ran off into the middle of the woods without your guns or your coat. You… _attacked_ Strauss, and then ran off to Roanoke Ridge and almost got yourself killed.” He paused as Hosea’s breathing grew strained and wet, then finished softly, “And I know that you had another episode right in here, not too long ago.”

A silent, soft sob shook free from Hosea’s chest and he raised his hand to cover his eyes.

Swanson’s hand on his knee tightened, and his voice grew tender and gentle. “Hosea… have you… ever had thoughts of… wanting to hurt yourself?”

Hosea dragged in a shaky breath and nodded.

Swanson’s hand tightened even more. “Have you ever… had thoughts, of… wanting to kill yourself?”

Hosea’s shoulders trembled. He nodded again.

“Oh,” Swanson said softly. He swallowed. “Have you made any plans? Or thought about… methods?”

Hosea hesitated and wet his lips. He dragged his hand down his face to wipe away the tears. “I-I…” he had to pause in surprise at how shaky his voice was. “Not… p-planned. It’s been… s-spur of the moment. I’ve stopped m-myself.” He took a deep breath. “I’ve found myself with my gun or my knife in my hand. I’ve come… r-really close.”

Swanson moved his hand from Hosea’s knee to his free hand and clasped it. His eyes shimmered and his voice broke as he said, _"Oh,_ my _brother."_

The words made something in Hosea's mind _snap_.

With a broken sob, he threw himself against Swanson’s chest and cried as the man moved his arms to hold Hosea tightly, tucking his head over his.

Hosea shuddered and gasped for air, choking out, "I don't know if I'm more of a coward for having these thoughts or being too weak to end it all."

"You're not, you're not," Swanson pleaded.

"I'm a goddamn _fraud_."

"You're _not_."

"I failed everyone, I couldn't- I can't-" he wailed "-everyone's going to die and it's all my _fault!_ " Swanson squeezed him tighter and Hosea could feel him shaking his head through his hair. "I killed Bessie, I'm the only reason Dutch is dead, I didn't kill Micah and I got an innocent woman killed and Mary-Beth got hurt 'cause of me and Trelawny nearly died and Arthur's sick and-" his voice became so strangled he started choking "-everyone would be better off without me! _I've damned you all!"_

"Listen," Swanson begged, cinching his fingers tightly into Hosea's shoulders and shaking him slightly, " _Listen!_ Look at me!" He leaned Hosea back enough to where he could make out the man’s carroty-ginger hair and gray streaks through the thick gloss of his tears. “You haven’t damned any of us! You _saved us,_ Hosea, you saved us all!”

Hosea frantically shook his head. “If it weren’t for me and Dutch none of you would be in this mess. We dragged you all down with us and I didn’t _stop it_ and now our crimes are catching up to us and none of you would be in danger if I hadn’t- _fucking-_ ”

Swanson made an incredulous noise. “Listen to yourself, friend! Are you saying that bringing us all into the gang was somehow… _wrong?_ ”

Hosea fisted his hands into Swanson’s shirt. _“Yes!”_ he shrieked. “None of you deserved this! To be touched by our _sickness!_ ” He gasped in a frantic breath. “Especially the _children-_ ” he broke into quaking wails and buried his head in Swanson’s chest.

“No, no, no, no,” Swanson chanted, running a hand through Hosea’s hair. “Our group has sinned, that is true, but _brother_ , we can find salvation through _love_ , and _you_ are guiding us there! And-”

Hosea sobbed a short, mirthless laugh. “I’ve no right to lead or guide anyone. I’m a _bad man,_ Reverend.”

Swanson hesitated for a long moment. “What man isn’t?”

Hosea made a low, sharp scoff. “I’m the worst out of everyone. I’m a fucking coward. A monster. I’ve ruined so many of them. I corrupted Dutch, he was _fine_ until I came along- All those kids, I’ve ruined their goddamn lives- got Jenny and the Callander boys and Sean and Kieran killed- Arthur and John are gonna _die-_ ” he started hyperventilating so much that he lost the ability to speak.

Swanson started rocking with him gently, massaging his back. “Hosea,” he whispered. “Come on, old friend. Think through it. What would Dutch say if he heard you talking like that?”

Hosea’s shame only sharpened when he imagined the gutted, devastated expression Dutch would have on his face if he were in the room.

Swanson continued, a little more frantic after noticing his misstep, “Where would so many of us be if it weren’t for you? I would have surely killed myself if Dutch hadn’t brought me into the fold, and both of you men gave me sanctuary and love and hope - and you, friend? Your incredible strength and integrity and compassion helped me find God again. And let’s talk of the children you seem so convinced you’ve ruined - Lenny would have been lynched if Dutch hadn’t brought him here. Tilly was a little girl living on the streets, being pursued by men who wanted to abuse her. Jenny was abandoned and had resigned herself to die, and we gave her a reason to live again. We found Davey and Mac homeless and on the run from the law already, and Davey was sick and would’ve surely died. And Arthur and John? The boys themselves told their stories enough times. John had a noose around his neck before his voice even dropped, and Arthur was surely going to end up on the gallows too, but instead you have shown them endless, _fathomless_ love.”

Hosea’s breathing had slowly been winding down further and further the longer Swanson spoke, as well as his tears. At Swanson’s last words, he hung his head and shuddered, croaking, “And I’m just gonna put them on the gallows again, or have them get _shot up_ and _bled out_ , and I’ve never treated them right-”

Swanson actually scoffed at that. “You’re the most loving father I’ve ever seen.”

Hosea screwed his eyes shut and shook his head emphatically. “I was a cold and neglectful son of a bitch to Arthur in the beginning,” he croaked. “I convinced John that my love was conditional after he ran away. And I couldn’t protect either of them from Dutch. I’m not their father, I don’t even deserve to be called their fucking mentor. They should _hate me._ ”

“And yet,” Swanson countered, “they love you _so much._ Maybe you should ask them why.” He patted Hosea’s back and leaned him away, waiting until Hosea blinked the tears out of his eyes so that he could see his pointed, soft look. “You are so loved by _everyone_ in this group. So many of them seek you out for comfort or guidance because we all know that you care about us and care about goodness and truth, and you have been helping _all of us_ become better people for _years._ And now - can’t you _see?_ You’re doing _now_ everything you’re saying you failed at before! You’re getting us out! You’ve built us up so we can turn our lives around! It’s not over yet, and while yes, our chances are slim and things are terrifying - do you have any idea how much your presence comforts and inspires us? It’s because you are a _good man,_ Hosea Matthews. Of the best sort.”

Hosea wetly hiccuped and trembled. “Why…” he let out a weak sob. “Why can’t… Why can’t I feel better?”

Swanson pulled him back in for a tight hug. “Because it’s not overnight,” he said quietly. “I’ve learned that more than anyone. I don’t think I’ll ever stop fighting against the voices that scream at me in my head. But when you stood on those steps at Shady Belle and yelled our senses back into us, I realized my purpose - and I realized that I am anything but alone. You just need to realize that too. We are _all_ here for you. You’re _not alone,_ brother.”

Hosea blinked. Then blinked again. His trembling grew and grew until he utterly shook apart, clutching desperately to Swanson and only managing a strangled “Oh, _Orville,_ ” before he was reduced to a wailing mess, his voice breaking into sharp whisper-screams as he sobbed into the man’s chest, splintering and shattering apart utterly and completely, letting all of the terror and grief and self-hatred roar and bleed and shake out of him with his tears.

The voice was quiet.

Hosea had no idea how much time had passed before his breathing finally got slow and easy, before his tears trickled to a stop and his body stilled, exhausted and sore and in pain yet feeling full of strength and purpose and… hope. He cleared his throat, took Swanson’s offered handkerchief to wipe away his snot and tears, used his free hand to clasp Swanson’s, and took in a deep, smooth breath. He gingerly straightened his back and rolled his shoulders back, nodding once, resolutely.

Swanson beamed at him. “What would you like to do?”

Hosea looked back at him and smiled, warm and genuine and determined.

He had work to do.

\--

After Swanson helped Hosea resituate himself on the bed propped up against a pair of pillows, he fetched him a glass of water and sat with him for a while, haggling out ideas for how to handle the topic of guns and knives and razors. They _were_ , as Hosea argued, highly wanted fugitives in the middle of rugged wilderness, but as Swanson countered, Hosea was at a distinctly low point in his life. They eventually found a compromise - whenever Hosea knew he’d be alone, he’d turn over his guns and knife to either Susan or Swanson to hold. Once he reemerged back around other people, then and only then could he retrieve them. As for razors, Swanson agreed to hide all the ones in the house. By the time they finished talking, Hosea was so exhausted he was struggling to keep his head up, but he knew he couldn’t rest until he talked with John and Arthur.

He firmly ordered Swanson - under the guise of a polite question - to send in John, but blessedly Swanson didn’t put up a fight. With only a warm “Of course, old friend,” Swanson clapped him on the shoulder and then left him to the silence, slipping out the front door with his guns and knife.

Hosea only had a few minutes alone to gather his thoughts before he heard the front door open and shut. He listened to the sound of boots shuffle awkwardly, and John’s tense, anxious huff of breath was audible all the way from the bedroom. When no more sound came, Hosea grinned and silently snorted a laugh.

“I know you’re out there, John.”

The silence grew so thick John could only have been holding his breath. All at once, he heard the boy let it out, then heard the slow, hesitant sound of his booted feet approach the doorway. Finally, John poked his head through the curtain with a forced smile. “Hey.”

Hosea sighed and patted the space on the mattress beside him. “Come here, son.”

John cast his gaze to the floor, the smile falling off his face, and sidled up to the bed. He then perched himself on the edge, body drawn taut like a bow string, ready for flight.

Both men stayed silent for a long moment, avoiding looking at each other. Hosea finally rubbed the back of his neck and forced himself to look at John. “I…” he started falsely, biting back a small flood of negative words. He shook his head slightly, then started again. “I don’t really know how to tell you this, John, but I need to. And I ought to.” He steeled himself. “I’ve been feeling… real low. For… for a very long time.”

John slid his eyes over to Hosea from where they’d been boring holes into the floor. He nodded slightly, his mouth curling downwards.

Hosea took a deep breath and met the boy’s eyes. “It’s been manifesting itself in all sorts of ugly ways. And it’s not just since… since Saint Denis. This shit’s been building up ever since I lost Bessie - this… this… _hatred_ I’ve been holding onto towards myself. I’ve been counting down the days until I die like a kid waiting for Christmas. Have tried to speed those days up in multiple ways.” He swallowed. “Even tried to cut straight to the end a few times.”

John thought through the words for a moment. When he finally processed them, his eyes widened and his brow knitted upwards.

Hosea’s hand lifted of its own volition to hover towards the boy, and when John didn’t move away, Hosea placed it heavily on his shoulder. “That… I… I haven’t been trying to _live_ for a while now. Just… survive, for others’ sake, but that’s no way to live and that’s no way for me to _be there_ for you, or any of the others. And John, I…” his voice withered away and he had to clear his throat, glancing away for a moment as his eyes watered. He blinked them clear and looked back at John, massaging his shoulder gently. “When you ran away-” every muscle in John’s body tensed “-I was beside myself with worry. I couldn’t stand the thought of losing y-you too.”

John curled into himself and hung his head, nodding.

Hosea heaved a sigh. “And when you came back, instead of… being there to help you through it and guide you through fixing your mistakes, I took the coward’s way and let all the rage and hatred at myself reflect onto you. I saw myself in you, and because I hated myself I... “ Hosea removed his hand from John’s shoulder and tucked it in towards himself. He clenched his jaw and swallowed, shaking his head. “That was wrong. It was _wrong_ . And I, I need you to know that I never, ever, not _once_ , hated you, John.” John slowly looked up at him, wide-eyed, and the sight made tears sneak into Hosea’s eyes. “You’re my _boy,_ ” he said softly. “I’ve never stopped loving you, nor have I ever loved you any less.”

John quickly wiped a thumb at the corner of his eye and reached out to rest his own hand on Hosea’s shoulder, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards a couple times before sinking down again. He sniffled and cleared his throat roughly. “I didn’t…” he heaved out a breath. “I left ‘cause… I was _scared_. The thought of being a father, I- I- I didn’t feel ready, and all I ever knew was that… that my mother died giving birth to me, and then I saw you and Arthur both lose your…” John hugged his free arm around his middle, his eyes going distant. “I didn’t… want… It wasn’t about me not loving her or y’all or disloyalty or disrespect, or at least I- I was- I thought-” His face looked like it was fit to break out into red hives.

Hosea ruefully smirked. “I see your emotions allergies are acting up again.” John snorted a laugh and shook his head, and Hosea reached his hand back out to clasp the nape of his neck, squeezing and shaking it gently. “Look at me,” he whispered. When John’s brown eyes met his, Hosea squeezed and gently shook him again. “I’m proud of you and who you are. It’s been a blessing to watch you grow into a man, into a _father,_ and I want to be around to see even more of what you can achieve.” John cleared his throat again as tears gathered at the corners of his eyes. Hosea lifted his chin. “I’m done with this- this self-flagellation shit, and you best be too. I don’t want to do this anymore. _I love you,_ son, like I brought you into this world myself.”

John huffed a wet breath and quickly wiped at his eyes again. “‘Love you too, ‘Sea,” he rasped.

Both men smiled wobbly at each other for a few seconds before John held out his other hand. Hosea let go of the boy’s nape to clasp it with a firm _clap_ , where John firmly cinched their hands together and used the connection to pull himself closer onto the bed and lean over Hosea’s shoulder, moving his other hand from Hosea’s shoulder to his back to pat it firmly. Hosea raised his other hand to the boy’s back and held him as close as he could without upsetting the wound in his side. 

“‘Proud of you,” Hosea repeated hoarsely. Then, after a long beat, quietly added, “I’m so sorry I let you down.”

John’s shoulders trembled for a moment. “You never let me down.”

“I thought I taught you not to lie, boy.”

“You _literally_ taught me to lie-” John shook his head and huffed, leaning back and away to meet Hosea’s eyes. He wet his lips, then said, sure as anything, “You were there when it counted. And you’re here now. That’s all that matters to me.”

Hosea huffed a laugh and smiled, cupping John’s jaw and patting him on the cheek. “I’ll need you to help call me out when I get on that old bullshit, okay?”

John nodded emphatically. “I’ll kick your ass, old man.”

They held their expressions for four seconds before bursting into laughter, pressing their foreheads together.

After a beat, as their laughter was winding down, John quietly asked, "So... we're good?"

"Yeah," Hosea replied, and he let all the warmth and love he felt in his chest bleed into the words. "We're good." And with that, he pressed a kiss to his son’s forehead.

\--

After Hosea sent John out to get Arthur, he spent the time waiting guzzling several mouthfuls of his second glass of water, then spent his time anxiously folding and then refolding his fingers, wringing his hands over and over until the joints in his fingers swelled and stung. He finally forced himself to stop and instead drew a leg up, wincing only slightly at his side, letting his head loll back to rest gently against the wall. 

The front door opened and closed and Hosea urgently sat up, wincing again. There was a brief couple of wet coughs from the living space and Hosea’s hands dug into the sheets, feeling the itch crawl its way back in under his skin. After a brief pause, he heard Arthur take a deep breath, then walk determinedly up to the doorway to draw aside the curtain.

The two of them stared at each other for a long moment, then both started saying, _“I’m sorr-”_

They scoffed, simultaneously.

“Get your butt over here,” Hosea said quickly, gesturing his head to the space beside him. “Why are _you_ apologizing?”

Arthur took his hat off with a sigh, rubbing his hand through his hair. Warily, he stepped closer and then sat heavily on the foot of the bed. He bounced his hat absently against his knee and said, “Well… yesterday… I didn’t know the situation. The Pinkertons and Micah and all that. I don’t actually want Strauss to die, but…” he sighed and his hands turned white-knuckled, his hat rumpling slightly in his grip, before they finally relaxed. “I didn’t mean to… stress you out…”

Hosea rubbed a hand over his face, then covered his eyes, leaning against his knee. He dragged in a long breath and released it with a shudder. “Don’t you _ever_ apologize for that, Arthur. You did _nothing_ wrong.” There was a long beat of heavy silence, which prompted Hosea to pull his face out of his hand and ask, “Are you okay? Your health has gotten so much worse.”

Arthur frowned even more severely and worried at his hat. “I’m fi-”

_“Arthur Morgan.”_

They stared at each other, the tension in the air so thick and brittle it felt ready to snap at any moment. Each of them could feel the other’s concern sparking off their body like lightning.

Arthur clenched his jaw. “I can’t speak a damn word about myself until you explain to me what the hell is wrong with you and why you’ve been acting all…” He gestured forcefully. “You’ve been scarin’ folk.”

 _Scaring me_ went unsaid, but Hosea could hear it anyways.

Hosea leaned back against the pillows with a wary sigh. He took a few long moments to just… breathe, then quietly began, “You know… when I stopped drinking? After Annabelle died? And then later after that whole mess blew over with Dutch, how I was…” he made a face at the word “...better?”

Arthur slowly nodded, watching him with caution.

Hosea frowned. “I wasn’t,” he said quietly. “Not entirely. That… sickness that overcame me, that shamed me in front of you all for so long, it never truly went away. I replaced alcohol as my crutch with Dutch, fool that he was. Everything just came to be about… survivin’, for all the others’ sake. For your sake. So I could protect you, as much as I could.” Arthur blinked once, twice. “Then, well.” Hosea grimaced down at the blankets. “I got my crutch kicked out from under me. But… more than that, I lost-” his voice broke, and he covered an eye with his hand as he heaved a breath, shaking his head. “Now I lost both the love of my life _and_ my soulmate,” he said brokenly.

Arthur’s expression crumpled and he stood to move closer and sit again, pressed close to Hosea’s side. He raised a ginger hand to rest on Hosea’s back and blinked rapidly, swallowing, his own voice breaking as he said, “And I lost a father.”

Hosea reached over to grasp Arthur’s knee. “I know you did,” he whispered, hoarse. “And I-I… I haven’t been able to be here for you or protect you at all, because- f-fuck…” he hung his head and blew out a harsh breath. “It’s gotten _real bad_ , Arthur. I’ve gotten so low in so many moments.” Arthur moved his other hand to rest over Hosea’s on his knee and squeezed. Hosea swallowed, swallowed again, almost choked, coughed slightly, then managed, “I’ve almost hurt myself or killed myself multiple times.”

A wet sigh slipped from Arthur’s lips and Hosea heard him sniffle. When he looked over, the boy had tears in his eyes, threatening to overflow at any moment. “...’Sea, I... “ He shook his head. “I…”

Hosea’s own expression crumpled and he used both his hands to clasp Arthur’s, squeezing it tightly. “When I hurt you yesterday I felt like the shit of the Earth,” he said roughly. “I never should have yelled, I never- I wasn’t picking Strauss over you-”

“It’s _okay_ ,” Arthur interrupted, thumping Hosea’s back. “I know you didn’t mean anything by it. Charles told me all about what’s been goin’ on while I was gone and about Trelawny and Micah, and he also told me that… told me how much you care about me. Then when we got back to the others everyone was tellin’ me you beat the shit out of Strauss - you ain’t gotta prove nothin’.”

Hosea shook his head and sagged. “It never should have gotten there in the first place. We never should have- Dutch and I- I never should have condoned that or tolerated it or gotten you involved in it. It was just- Dutch got to talking all sweet about settling down and getting out of this life but we never seemed to have enough money for it and we kept being run out of places and-” he bit down on the words and let out a strangled, frustrated noise. “Desperation is no excuse. Like you said, _those_ people were desperate. We got _no right_ taking from people who have nothing, that’s not anything we were ever supposed to _be_ , no matter how hard things got. And it would’ve been one thing if it only affected me and Dutch, _we_ were the ones making that decision, but you- _you-_ ” he let go of Arthur’s hand to hide his face. “I _sent_ you- I _told_ you to-”

Arthur pulled him into a hug, and Hosea broke into exhausted tears, fisting his hands into the back of Arthur’s jacket.

After taking a deep breath, Hosea continued, “Dutch and I have failed you in a thousand different ways. Neither of us were the guardians you deserved. We trapped you in this life, and on behalf of both of us, son, I’m so, so- _sorry-_ ”

“Hey,” Arthur said gently, fisting his own hands into the back of Hosea’s shirt, “Hey, now. Hey. If anyone failed me, it’s my father, okay? You an’ Dutch- you two- you were the best things in my life since my Ma. If you woulda dropped me off somewhere for a ‘better life’ I woulda just run right back to ya.” He tucked his nose into Hosea’s shoulder. “Had the chance multiple times with Mary. I never did, ‘cause I couldn’t leave you.”

“That’s the problem, isn’t it?” Hosea croaked.

Arthur’s arms tightened. “Not to me it ain’t. And right now - we’re gettin’ outta the life now, ain’t we? And Strauss has had his tail tucked between his legs quiverin’ in his wagon ever since you chewed him up and spat him out, I _know_ we ain’t doin’ _that_ business no more. Come on now, ‘Sea.”

With one last wet sigh, Hosea’s tears stopped, and he slumped against Arthur’s bulky frame. “‘M sorry I’m not Dutch,” he whispered.

Arthur tensed slightly. “What?”

Hosea frowned and repeated, louder, “I’m sorry I’m not Dutch. That it’s not him here ‘stead of me. You two were always closer.”

Arthur slowly leaned away from him and looked at him, his expression raw and open and heartbroken. “Hosea…”

Hosea swallowed and shook his head. “I know you loved him more. He was always there for you ever since the very beginning, and I’ve done hardly anything but make you think I didn’t want you or I left you or I ignored your problems to whine about myself-”

“ _Stop,_ ” Arthur begged, his voice strained and hoarse. “Please… stop.” Hosea blinked and stared at his face. Arthur ducked his head and rubbed at the tear-stains on his cheeks. “I've been… Ever since…” He shuddered out a breath. “I’ve been tearing myself apart with guilt since Dutch died ‘cause I... “ He pressed his lips together, trying and failing to stop the bottom one from trembling. “Because leading up to everything, I kept thinking and writing that I love you more than him.”

Dutch’s venomous words from long ago, stuck in Hosea’s soul like a poisoned barb, burned away at the sound of Arthur’s voice, leaving behind only a bone-deep ache of what the man had allowed himself to become.

“Oh, Arthur,” Hosea said gently as Arthur’s breaths hitched. He lifted his hands to cradle Arthur’s face, lifting it back up to look at him, shimmering hazel meeting shimmering blue. “Dutch…” He sucked in a teary breath. _“He hurt you.”_ Arthur swallowed thickly. “He hurt me, he hurt John, he hurt all of us. You feelin’ that way… It’s _natural_ , son. And it’s _okay_. You didn’t fail or hurt him - it’s the other way around. He knew you loved him.”

Two tears escaped from Arthur’s eyes. “Did he, though?” he asked in a broken whisper.

Hosea’s brow knit upwards as his thumb wiped away a third tear. “I knew that man better than anyone. And I can tell you right now, son- no matter how he was acting, no matter how deep in his head he got, no matter how conditional he made you feel his love was... He knew.” A sob slipped from Arthur’s throat, and Hosea pulled him to his chest to hold him, where Arthur grabbed at his shirt again.

_“I miss him, Hosea.”_

Hosea tucked his nose into Arthur’s hair. “I miss him too."

“B-But…” Arthur heaved out a wet breath and continued, his voice gruff and low with the weight of the words, “if it was him or you… I… I’d always choose you.”

Hosea cradled the back of Arthur’s head and felt something click into place in his chest, as surely as Arthur fit perfectly in his arms. “And if it was him or you,” he said quietly, reverently, “I’d always choose you.” He squeezed Arthur even tighter. “And I’m choosing you now. I don’t want to throw myself into the grave after the ones I lost anymore. I have everything I need right here.” Arthur trembled, and Hosea pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “I want to get better. And I’m serious about it this time. I want to be around for you, and John, and Tilly and Lenny and all the others, I want- I want to _live for myself._ And I’ll… I’ll need help. I know that this won’t ever go away, and I’ll fight it all I can, but do you reckon you could help keep my fool ass in line when I get to actin’ crazy like this?”

Arthur sucked in a raspy breath and huffed a laugh. “I can try.”

“That’s all I can ask.” Hosea ruffled a hand through Arthur’s hair then manhandled the boy away from him to hold him at arm’s length, pinning him with a critical eye. “Now. What’s with this sickness?”

Arthur scrubbed away the tears on his face and sighed. “I don’t… rightly know what it is.”

Hosea frowned and grabbed Arthur’s chin, rotating his head side to side, then moved his hand up to feel his forehead and the glands in his neck. “How long has this been going on?”

Arthur let out a wary, wheezy sigh. “This bad cough’s been… goin’ on for… I guess goin’ on ‘bout… two weeks now, just about three?”

Hosea frowned. “This started before the bank robbery?” Arthur rubbed the back of his neck and avoided his gaze. “Arthur, why didn’t-”

Arthur started doing his hand gesture - over, under, through. Over, under, through. “Everything was just so- goddamn messy, and Dutch was all keyed up, and I kept waiting every night for Milton to roll into camp with his fifty men ‘cause we may as well have just moved right down the damn street to hide, and Dutch kept saying we were so close to Tahiti and all that and I just wanted- _out._ I just wanted to be _done,_ and I didn’t want to slow us down.”

Hosea made a low noise of understanding, moving his hand from Arthur’s face to massage at his shoulder. “I know the feeling,” he sighed. “What are your symptoms? I know you have a fever.”

Arthur stayed focused on his hands. “I dunno, I… I can’t hardly eat or sleep no more. I’m always tired, but there’s also just… everythin’. It’s hard to tell what’s from losing Dutch and what ain’t.”

Hosea’s frown sank deeper. “Any rashes or vomiting?” Arthur shook his head. “Have you been coughing anything up?” Arthur nodded, and Hosea tensed. “What color?”

Arthur made a vague, grossed-out noise, but then said, “Greenish-yellow?”

“Any red?”

Arthur shook his head.

Hosea made a quiet, strained noise, lifting his hand to Arthur’s face again. “This ain’t no normal cold or flu,” he murmured. “It ain’t the pox or scarlet fever...”

Arthur harrumphed. “Figured that out on my own,” he grumbled.

“Could be pneumonia,” Hosea sighed. “We can’t leave with you like this.”

Arthur tensed suddenly and snapped his head up to look at him. “Hosea, _no._ ”

Hosea fixed him with a pointed look. “We need to get you checked out!”

“At what doctor?!” Arthur huffed. “In Valentine? In _Saint Denis?_ There’s Pinkertons crawlin’ all over Roanoke Ridge - should I go to the doctor in Blackwater? Maybe we’ll run into Micah if the law don’t get us first!”

“Then we’ll stay!” Hosea pressed. “You’re gonna lay down in a goddamn bed in this house and _rest,_ and we’ll move when you recover!”

Arthur shook his head. “Time is runnin’ out on this place, ‘Sea, you know that well as I! ‘Sides, we’ve _been_ tryin’ to take it easy here, and all I’m seein’ is us dropping like flies! We ain’t even _doin’ nothin’_ and this house has become a whole damn infirmary!”

“Even more reason not to move yet!”

“Even more reason _to!_ ” Arthur pressed, reaching out and clasping one of Hosea’s hands in both of his and fixing him with a desperate, pleading stare. “Hosea, if the law comes rolling up on us, we’re sitting ducks here. This place ain’t built to hold against an assault. They find us like this, they will kill _everyone_ \- we need to keep doin’ what you said we were doin’ and move north through the mountains in three days!”

Hosea made an absolute stink-face, but he knew when he’d been bested. “A compromise, then. We head north in three days, and as _soon_ as we make it to the first town north of Ambarino with a doctor, _we’re getting you checked out._ ”

Arthur made a soft, frustrated noise, but nodded. “I can live with that.”

“That’s the point.”

The two men fixed each other with withering glares and fondly scoffed. 

“Now, until we move,” Hosea continued, laying his free hand on top of Arthur’s and _squeezing_ enough to make the boy make an uncomfortable noise, “you’re on bedrest, and I _mean it._ You can have this room-”

“Where are _you_ gonna go?”

Hosea blinked. “My tent.”

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “Oh, really? Well why don’t you get up and do some jumpin’ jacks for me then? Or maybe Mary-Beth can get moved outside, ‘cause we all know that folk with recent severe injuries or who just recovered from _hypo-goddamn-thermia_ do so well sleepin’ on the ground in the elements.”

Hosea slowly narrowed his eyes back. “...We’ll share the bed-”

“I’ll sleep on the floor,” Arthur asserted. “My bedroll’s just dandy. I ain’t gettin’ you sick with whatever this is.”

Hosea drew himself up and scowled. “How about I sleep on the floor?”

Arthur snorted. “Well if _you_ think you can get up off of it, be my guest!”

Hosea plapped a hand on the boy’s face and shoved him backwards off the bed and onto the floor with a yelp. When Arthur scrambled tiredly back onto his feet, Hosea hummed to himself. “Fine, I guess you win.”

“You’re ridiculous,” Arthur snipped, but there was a grin on his face.

Hosea grinned back at him. “Go on and get your things. And _tell_ Swanson and Susan what you’re supposed to be doing, I’ll know if you don’t.”

Arthur sighed a sigh that released several tons from his shoulders. With a warmly dismissive hand wave that Hosea knew the boy didn’t mean, he left the room and headed outside.

By the time Arthur returned with his bedroll and an armful of his things, shortly followed by Mary-Beth, Mrs. Trelawny, Susan and Swanson, Hosea had oozed downwards in the bed and was in a light doze. He had just enough awareness to make out Arthur trying to lay out his bed roll on the kitchen floor through the others’ bustling forms, and ground his voice up and out of his wheezing lungs to yell, “ _Boy,_ you are _not_ sleeping on the kitchen floor like a goddamn dog, get your ass in here.”

He saw the beginning of Arthur’s long-suffering sigh before his vision was blocked by Susan poking her head in with a wry grin. “I see you’re doing better.”

Hosea huffed. “Eat my ass, Susan.”

“There he is,” she drawled, turning and walking away. “I’m going to fetch you all some food, you’re _welcome!”_

Arthur shuffled into the room with mumbles and grumbles, then, and as he was flopping his bedroll onto the floor next to the bed and rolling it out with his foot, Swanson flitted past and called “Remember to get some rest before the wake tonight!”

Hosea tensed at the reminder and let out an exhausted groan, oozing further down into the pillows as Arthur sat heavily down on his bedroll with a wary huff. By the time Susan arrived half an hour later with two bowls of stew, the two men were snoring fitfully where they lay, and for once, their expressions looked lax and at peace. She tutted at them both, then turned away to give the bowls to Mary-Beth and Trelawny instead, tugging the curtain closed behind her with a secret, private smile full of too much fondness for her to want anyone to see.

\--

_Sunlight filtered through tree leaves as soft clouds rolled by overhead, making the sunbeams on the forest floor slowly blink on and off and shimmer. A silver fox slowly stepped its way through the forest floor and sniffed the air, swishing its tail, before looking at him with soft, warm eyes. Hazel on hazel. It blinked slowly and flicked an ear before turning to trot off into the sunlight._

\--

The air around the homestead was distinctly raw and brittle as the full moon rose above the treeline to shine down on them all. Everyone had spent the day oscillating between a morose dread at the reminder of death and exactly how much it had touched them, and getting into loud, bitter arguments with each other about big and small things alike - from whether or not someone could borrow a tie to whether or not they deserved what happened. 

When the time came for everyone to start changing their clothes into black, the silence hanging over the homestead was palpable. Hardly anyone talked nor looked at each other, and when Swanson began solemnly creating an altar out of the side of the barn, hanging up what few reminders the gang had held onto of those they lost - Arthur’s drawing of Jenny, the Joker card from Davey’s card deck, Mac’s brass knuckles, a page full of when Sean first wrote out his own name, Branwen’s bridle, and Dutch’s hat - lit from below by what few candles he was able to find in the house, any residual anger at each other was smothered into ash.

The door to the house opened to reveal Trelawny, walking mostly under his own power with the help of Mrs. Trelawny at his elbow, with Tarquin and Cornelius looking hesitant and awkward at their hips. They carefully moved over towards the cluster of seats that had been moved over by the barn, and next out the door was Mary-Beth with her crutch under one arm and Miss Grimshaw under the other, both wearing their darkest dresses. After tenderly tucking a lock of Mary-Beth’s hair behind her ear, Miss Grimshaw led the young misty-eyed woman towards the chairs. Next in the doorway was Arthur, dressed in black, who stepped aside to look back as Hosea limped into the doorway in his own black garb. The two men gave each other tired smiles before moving to join the others, where they each were greeted warmly. The presence and inclusion of Trelawny, Mary-Beth, Hosea, and Arthur made the whole crowd noticeably settle, easing away the brittle tension like a soothing balm, allowing all their grief to truly register.

When everyone was finally all together and settled in save for Sadie, who graciously volunteered to stand watch during the service (and was thus graciously thanked for it), Swanson slowly shuffled his way up to the front of the group in the finest suit he owned, his white collar tied pristinely around his neck, with a Bible - a real, well-worn and well-loved Bible - in his hands. He stopped beside the altar and looked out at them all, breathing heavily with a mixture of anxiety and grief, before he finally spoke.

“Hello, everyone,” he started, his hands shaking. “Tonight, we’re… we’re here because we’ve lost a lot of very dear folk. This has been… a truly, truly… _horrid_ year.” The crowd murmured in agreement. “The year 1899 has taken six lives from us. Jenny, Davey, Mac, Sean, Kieran, and Dutch… we loved them all dearly. They were… they were family. And for nearly all of them, we’re the only way they’ll be remembered. _We_ … are their legacy. Their mark on this world. One way or another, they all helped us survive - helped us get here, to have this chance.” Swanson breathed in deep, then slowly let it out, his hands tightening and untightening on the Bible. “There’s a story from the Good Book that I want to share with you all. The story of Job.

It begins with God in Heaven, and God is praising the most faithful of his children, Job, who is a kind, selfless, _good_ man - perfect in every way. He is blessed with loving children, good fertile land, abundant livestock, and good health. Satan sees this and goes up to God, saying that Job is only good because of the blessings God has given him. The Serpent argues that if Job loses all the good things in his life, then he will turn upon and curse God. God enters into a wager with Satan and agrees to let the Devil destroy all the good things in Job’s life so long as he does not kill the man. And so Satan does - Job’s land becomes barren, his livestock are all stolen, all of his children are attacked and killed, and his health fails. 

For a time, Job holds his faith in God and continues to praise Him, but nothing changes. He finally breaks down, but instead of cursing God, he hatefully curses the day he was born. Job’s friends arrive then and they begin to speak of all the ways that this could have happened, with practically all of them saying that Job must have brought this upon himself, that he must have done wrong, and that the horrible crimes that had befallen him were his just punishment from God. Job gets angrier and angrier, insisting on his innocence, all the way until he calls upon God to face him and explain Himself.

God appears to Job as a storm and speaks from it to show him the endless complexities of the world, the great and terrible majesty of nature, how every day there are acts of creation and destruction and seemingly pointless changes beyond Job’s or any of our comprehension. He ends by showing Job two great and terrifying beasts, each capable of massive destruction and violence, and explains to Job that both are part of His good workings in the world. And Job comes to realize that his circumstances have nothing to do with… with the glory or worth of existence, or what is just or unjust. That bad things can happen to good people, and good things can happen to bad people. What matters is… What _matters_ , is…”

Swanson took a deep breath, clutching the Bible to his chest. “What matters is what we choose to do in the midst of it. Now, we are all… wicked people, who have lived in wicked ways, and have committed great sins. And the world has _punished_ us for it, this terrible, terrible year. It will continue punishing us in the future. But it also punishes newborn babes and selfless, compassionate folk, and rewards twisted, evil men by making them fat and happy and drowned in riches. And all this… it ain’t about what’s _fair._ It’s about what we’re going to do about it. Will we let ourselves turn to hate and curse the world and reap further pain and destruction, and continue the cycle that took these lives? Or will we seek to do good works, and carry the lives of those we lost with us to salvation in doing so?”

Lenny let out a loud whoop, swiftly followed by a holler by Abigail, and the crowd roared an affirmative with a smattering of clapping. 

Swanson was trembling like a leaf after his impassioned sermon, but he wasn’t quite done yet. He smiled tearily at them all, then roughly spoke in a voice that threatened to break, “I’d like for all of us to take six minutes of silence for all of our dead. Please take this time to reflect on each of them and their lives, what they meant to you. If you are moved to say a prayer aloud or speak a memory, feel free to do so.”

With that, Swanson sat down amongst them, and then they were all left to stare at the six mementos hanging above the altar in the gentle, dancing yellow light. After a long stretch of raw, agonized silence, people began to speak.

They spoke of Dutch van der Linde, of course, the man who started it all. Every memory shared was of how the man had saved them in one way or another - had took them away from a world that scorned their existence and sought their destruction, to introduce them instead to a family that made them feel like they belonged.

They spoke of Jenny Kirk, the girl whose family had dumped her out of the wagon in the middle of nowhere. They came across her sitting in a ditch, waiting patiently and stoically to die in the elements. They spoke of how the lantern light of their wagons illuminated her hollow-eyed face, how they held out their hands to her, full of blankets and food and offers of love, how they called her _pumpkin_ , and how they saw the fire of her, once extinguished, get rekindled into an ember of hope.

They spoke of Davey Callander, the youngest twin - ‘by a few seconds,’ as he’d always say. They spoke of his merriness, his trickery, how he always waded into a fight with a bellow and a laugh the same as he would any poker game. They spoke of the constant rosiness in his cheeks from the drink, how he claimed it made him shoot straight because when he was sober his eyes were googly - how he relished in their laughs as much as he relished in the spilled blood of those who threatened to hurt them.

They spoke of Mac Callander, the oldest twin. They spoke of how much more quiet he was than his brother, how he always seemed to fade into the background until a fight broke out. For all his brother was willing to start fights, it was Mac who was always willing to finish them. They spoke of how the man had no hesitation, how he’d throw his fist into a man’s face the second he looked at any of them dirty, how he’d put a bullet into a man’s head before any of the others could even realize there was any danger.

They spoke of Sean Macguire, a lad so mad from Ireland they had to put him in America. They spoke of how he had so quickly squirmed his way into becoming everyone’s bastard brother or nephew, how he always seemed to know exactly how to get on everyone’s nerves as sure as he knew how to make them smile. They spoke of his braggart assuredness in battle that covered his gross lack of experience, of his boisterous words and tongue-in-cheek attitude that covered a desperate need to make them proud, a goal that he never realized was already fulfilled.

Finally, they spoke of Kieran Duffy, the O’Driscoll Boy. They spoke of all the phantoms and monsters they’d made up in their heads about what the man was, and how all of them were the furthest things from the truth. They spoke of the terror the boy carried everywhere with him, the way he always seemed to carry the things he went through on his back, making him bent low towards the ground. They spoke of his past full of victimhood to a cruel world and crueler people, and of how in the wake of all of it he was still capable of unimaginable kindness and tenderness - and of how those things were what truly made him, in the end, a _Van der Linde_.

At the end of the six minutes that had turned into sixteen, Swanson finally made his way back to the front and looked out at them all again, taking in their tear-stained faces and the way they all had gravitated towards one another, bounded by their shared love and loss. He dabbed at his own tears with a handkerchief, then cleared his throat and announced, “I… I have prepared a song for us all to sing, if you will indulge me?” The others nodded amidst a smattering of sniffles. 

After a brief five minutes of practicing, the entire gang opened their mouths and sang, uneven and rough but from the heart:

_And am I born to die?  
To lay this body down!   
And must my trembling spirit fly   
Into a world unknown   
A land of deepest shade   
Unpierced by human thought   
The dreary regions of the dead   
Where all things are forgot   
Soon as from earth I go   
What will become of me?   
Eternal happiness or woe   
Must then my portion be!   
Waked by the trumpet sound   
I from my grave shall rise   
And see the Judge with glory crowned   
And see the flaming skies _

When everyone had finished, heaving deep breaths and swallowing back their tears, Swanson opened his mouth to begin ending the service, only for Lenny and Mary-Beth to rise. The two young adults made their way to the front and quietly asked Swanson if they could lead a song themselves. Swanson looked at them in delighted surprise and nodded, hurrying to take a seat.

“So,” Lenny started hesitantly, pausing to take a deep breath as Mary-Beth rubbed his back, “the other day Mary-Beth and I discovered that Jenny and Kieran were fond of the same song. Down to the River to Pray. Jenny always liked it as a lullaby, and Kieran would hum the tune to the horses. We thought that… that it might be nice if we sang it all together, for those of you who know it? I-It…” 

Lenny wiped away a few tears, and Mary-Beth laid her head on his shoulder for a few seconds before finishing for him, “We thought it’d be a nice way for them to feel closer, and honor everyone’s memories.”

The crowd made another soft bubble of affirmative noises, smiling and nodding at them warmly. Lenny and Mary-Beth smiled back at them all, and each took a deep breath before starting, hesitant and quiet:

_As I went down in the river to pray  
Studying about that good ol' way  
And who shall wear the starry crown  
Good Lord, show me the way _

Karen and Tilly mouthed ‘you’re doing great’ at Mary-Beth before joining in themselves, alongside a steadily growing wave of the gang, their voices growing louder and more sure with each gained voice. Abigail reached out her hand to take Molly’s with a sad smile, and the gesture surprised the Irishwoman so much she tearily smiled in return and rested her head on the young woman’s shoulder.

_O sisters, let's go down  
Let's go down, come on down  
O sisters, let's go down  
Down in the river to pray _

_As I went down in the river to pray  
Studying about that good ol' way  
And who shall wear the robe and crown  
Good Lord, show me the way _

Bill knocked his hand gently against Javier’s elbow with a wary, apologetic smile, prompting Javier to roll his eyes and answer him with slinging an arm around his shoulders as they sang; meanwhile, Uncle offered Pearson a handkerchief for his profuse tears with a teasing smirk that lacked any edge. Charles caught Lenny’s eye up front and smiled reassuringly at the young man, nodding encouragement, and the knotted up muscles of Lenny’s shoulders slowly unwound.

_O brothers, let's go down  
Let's go down, come on down  
Come on, brothers, let's go down  
Down in the river to pray _

_As I went down in the river to pray  
Studying about that good ol' way  
And who shall wear the starry crown  
Good Lord, show me the way _

Tarquin and Cornelius gigglingy whisper-sang with Trelawny so that the poor man wouldn’t have to work his chest so much, all of them exchanging conspiratory glances alongside Mrs. Trelawny; John pulled Jack up from the ground and into his lap to rock as he hummed along to the tune, only to get distracted by Hosea pinching Jack’s cheek to make the boy smile. The two men exchanged a warm, loving look before Arthur knocked on John’s knee and nodded approvingly, making the three smile as Hosea wrapped his arms around the boys’ backs, both of them leaning against his sides.

_O fathers, let's go down  
Let's go down, come on down  
O fathers, let's go down  
Down in the river to pray _

_As I went down in the river to pray  
Studying about that good ol' way  
And who shall wear the robe and crown  
Good Lord, show me the way _

Susan shuffled closer to Karen and raised a hesitant hand towards her shoulder. Karen side-eyed the hand and looked at her hesitantly for a long second before nodding slightly. Susan then squeezed her shoulder heavily and looked at the woman with a wobbly frown, pressing a kiss to her temple and then to Tilly’s. Both young women looked at Miss Grimshaw in open shock before relaxing and smiling tiredly, finally leaning into her touch.

_O mothers, let's go down  
Come on down, don't you wanna go down?  
Come on, mothers, let's go down  
Down in the river to pray _

_As I went down in the river to pray  
Studying about that good ol' way  
And who shall wear the starry crown  
Good Lord, show me the way _

Strauss, who had isolated himself to the very back corner of the crowd, looked on in silence at them all as they sang, his hands folded tightly in his lap to suppress their shaking. His eyes roamed over the backs of their heads, at their warm loving gestures of affection, before finally fixing themselves on the altar to their dead up front, tears streaming down his cheeks.

_O sinners, let's go down  
Let's go down, come on down  
O sinners, let's go down  
Down in the river to pray _

_As I went down in the river to pray  
Studying about that good ol' way  
And who shall wear the robe and crown  
Good Lord, show me the way _

As the last voice faded out, everyone seemed to heave a slow, collective breath, a few of them clapping. Swanson stood and placed warm hands on Lenny’s and Mary-Beth’s shoulders, thanking them with a large smile before turning to everyone once more. “Thank you, all of you, for participating tonight. My heart aches every day knowing that these six won’t be able to join us in the bright future we are going to achieve, but that’s why we’ll just have to live and live well on their behalf. May they all rest in peace. God bless.”

As everyone began dispersing and forming small groups to mingle, Hosea came up to Swanson and pulled him into a warm embrace, huffing a laugh and declaring, “Holy Hell, Orville, you did amazing!”

Swanson laughed and wrapped his arms around Hosea in return, patting his back. “Interesting choice of words, but thank you!”

Arthur came up from behind and clapped Swanson on the back with his hat, grinning. “Never thought I’d see the day. The Reverend is a Reverend!”

Swanson turned his head to quip something at Arthur, but paused when he saw the man’s ornery expression shutter and sink into a rigid scowl. Hosea followed the boy’s gaze and became similarly rigid at the sight of Strauss approaching them, hesitantly shuffling his feet and holding his hat in front of his stomach. Hosea let go of Swanson and backed away to stand beside and slightly in front of Arthur, leveling Strauss with an exhausted, warning glare.

Swanson looked back and forth between the three men and raised placating hands. “Now, now, gentlemen…”

Molly came striding up to them then, protectively taking Strauss’s arm and staring them down with a pleading frown. “Please, Arthur, just hear him out.”

“Ain’t nothin’ to hear,” Arthur gruffed. Swanson looked frantically back and forth between the pairs and began to sweat. 

Strauss bit his lip and sucked in a slow breath through his nose. “Mr. Morgan… Mr. Matthews… I wanted to apologize, in whatever manner I could. I wanted to explain myself to you, and I promise that if you do not find it satisfactory, I will leave voluntarily tonight.”

Arthur stared him down with the icy-cold, thunderous glare of his that made greater men than Strauss quell in fear, and Strauss trembled. Finally, after a long moment of silence, he rasped, “Well go on, then. Explain yourself.”

Strauss swallowed thickly. “I want you to know that I have no illusions as to my or any of our status. I never viewed myself as a lord ruling over a fiefdom, nor the people I leant to as peasants. The people I sought to take our money… it was precisely because I intimately know what it is like to be desperate, to have nothing. I have told you how in Austria my family lived in utter poverty. My brother as a boy risked his life stealing from policemen so we could have a dinner of a fistful of bread, and when we were still starving, we were forced to watch my little sister be sold and reduced to property. My sister to this day is no doubt still languishing in indentured servitude, if she has not perished from abuse or neglect already.”

Arthur coughed a couple times into his elbow and shook his head with a grimace. “So you go and put good people through the same shit?”

 _“Yes,”_ Strauss confirmed. “I knew exactly what those people were willing to do for money, and I knew that their fear would assure repayment, because I came from their background. People in more secure situations, with greater outside access to capital, are far more likely to attempt to cheat out of the deal or hire protection. The way I saw it, I knew that those people would be taken advantage of and ruined by some force or other, and I knew that money is the only real way to protect against that force. So, rather than be a victim to that force, I became the force. Every person I ruined meant another week I got to live.” He looked at Hosea. “And later, it meant more food in the gang’s stomachs, more bullets in our chambers, more money for medicine and medical supplies, and more money to try and get to safety.”

Hosea spoke up then, quiet and resolute, his voice carrying a note of finality. “It wasn’t worth it.”

Strauss frowned at him and bit his lip, then looked back at Arthur. “You all… You were my second chance at family. I wasn’t truly living until Dutch brought me here, and when he did I no longer had a roof over my head, I gave up warmth at night and well-prepared food, but...” He sighed. “I had a reason to live. And I gained friends who I felt a duty to protect and provide for, and so yes, I took immense pleasure in my work, because I always thought: it was them, or us. And it may as well be them.”

Arthur and Hosea both clenched their jaws. Swanson had dropped his hands long ago, and was reduced to running a hand through his hair and shaking his head, staring into the middle distance. Molly’s hands tightened around Strauss’s arm.

Strauss could meet none of their eyes. “These past two days, I have felt like a stranger. The others, they have either looked at me like a monster, or have fought on my behalf, destroying the tender peace we have and sowing division. And if I cannot be forgiven, I can accept that. But what I cannot accept is tearing this family apart. And so if I must leave, I will, and I will not resist. But… but if you allow me to stay…” he forced himself to meet Arthur’s and Hosea’s eyes. “I will try to follow your example and change. And as the Reverend said… to… to do good works.”

Hosea looked at Arthur fully and fixed him with a patient, open expression, letting the choice be entirely his. Arthur stared at him for a few seconds before frowning and looking back to Strauss. He grimaced, drew in a deep breath, tilted and shook his head, then let it out in a long sigh, closing his eyes and pinching the bridge of his nose. “You can… stay,” he growled. He suddenly moved quickly and violently forward, however, pointing a violent finger at Strauss’s chest and making both he and Molly jump back in alarm. “Though I hope you kept a tally of all the goddamn lives you destroyed, because you best save _twofold_ if you want to even _pretend_ that you can ever be a good man.”

Strauss trembled again, but he fell to his knees and clasped his hands, nodding emphatically. “Yes! Yes! Absolutely! Oh, thank you, Mr. Morgan! Thank you!”

Arthur huffed and turned away to walk quickly back towards the house, leaving Strauss to continue breathing heavily in relief as Molly shook him and cheered and Swanson drifted off to dismantle the altar. Hosea breathed out a sigh and turned to limp after Arthur, nursing his side.

He was vaguely amused to find that Arthur had paused his flight back to the house halfway across the yard to look back at him with a look of vague regret. He rolled his eyes and slapped away his partially outstretched arm to continue limping on his own towards the house. “I’m not a glass doll, I won’t break if you’re not hovering over me every goddamn second. Now if you’ll _excuse me,_ I’m gonna go sleep for fifty fucking years.” He paused for a second and glanced back at Arthur, his expression softening, and he shed all the glibness in his voice to say, “I’m proud of you, you know.”

Arthur huffed and shook his head, trodding after him. “Ain’t nothin’ to be proud of. I’m just a sap.”

“Maybe,” Hosea mused, opening the front door for them both and looking back at him, “but you’re my sap.”

Arthur snorted and entered the warm light of the house. “Takes one to know one.”

Hosea kicked his leg as he passed, making the boy stumble and careen towards the bedroom with a laugh.

\--

The next morning, Hosea awoke to the sound of Arthur’s coughing.

With a heavy sigh, he dragged himself upright and looked down at the man with a concerned frown. Arthur glanced at him from where he was coughing into his elbow and shuddered, then slumped, saying, “‘M sorry for waking you up” with one last cough.

Hosea took one look at the pale pink dawn light shining in through the window and rolled his eyes. “God forbid you wake me up at the time I’m supposed to,” he mumbled, before gingerly swinging his legs over the side of the bed and leaning down to clasp Arthur’s shoulder where he sat on the floor. “How are you feeling?”

Arthur took a few steadying breaths before an impish glint entered his eyes. He half-heartedly smirked at Hosea and replied, “About how I look.”

Hosea narrowed his eyes knowingly, then shoved his hand into the boy’s hair to ruffle it. “Ah, then you must be feeling pretty good then, pretty boy.”

 _“Pretty boy?!”_ Hosea snickered and heaved himself up off the bed with a grunt, shuffling around to his clothes and grabbing the first clean shirt he saw. Arthur leaned around the bed to peer at him. “Whatcha doin’?”

Hosea tiredly shrugged on the shirt and began buttoning it up with achy fingers. “I need to scout out the three mountain passes Javier, Karen, and Charles found, figure out which one we’re going to take tomorrow. We can’t afford any mistakes.”

Arthur hummed disapprovingly. “That don’t sound like bed rest.”

Hosea shrugged at the wall before finishing the buttons. “Ain’t nothing else for it.” He heard Arthur let out a resigned sigh from behind him as he shrugged on his buckskin vest.

“Guess we missed our chance for that trail ride, huh,” Arthur said quietly.

Hosea’s hands stilled on his vest buttons. He glanced left, glanced right, then squinted at the wall. “Huh.”

“What, ‘huh’?”

A slow smile began growing on Hosea’s face as he finished buttoning his vest. He turned around to look at Arthur and grinned. “Well... who says I can’t scout with twenty people?”

Arthur’s eyebrows rose towards his hairline as his mouth curled into a hesitant smile. “You think the others will go for it?”

“After last night?” Hosea huffed a laugh. “They need this even more, now.”

Arthur blinked at him and his smile sagged slightly. “...I _can_ come, right?”

“Well I’m not a goddamn _hypocrite_ , Arthur,” Hosea chuckled, turning back to his pile of clothes. “Hell, Trelawny’s doing well enough even he can probably come if we stay at a walk. And the day looks beautiful outside! Good for the health.” He continued searching for his coat before stiffening and sighing.

“Need a coat?” Arthur prompted immediately, pushing himself up to his knees and dragging over his own clothes chest. “Here.”

Hosea turned and caught the suede leather trench coat that Arthur threw at him, humming approvingly at the soft beige inner lining, bountiful pockets, and dark brown leatherwork on the shoulders. The label read _Montana_. “This is a fine coat,” he mused, glancing at the boy. “Sure you wanna give this up?”

“I’m drowning in coats,” Arthur quipped. “‘Sides, you need to keep those old bones of yours warm. And I know your love of pockets.”

Hosea chuckled warmly and shrugged the coat on, sighing in content as the weight settled over his shoulders. “I _do_ love my pockets.” He picked up Dutch’s handkerchief and Bessie’s brooch, then, and stared at them for a long minute before carefully wrapping the brooch in the cloth and shoving both down into the bottom of his satchel. He grabbed one of his regular ascots instead and tied it around his neck. When he turned around and spied Arthur again, the man was wearing a bittersweet smile. Hosea returned it. “Shall we go get some coffee and some breakfast?”

“Sounds good to me,” Arthur replied, grabbing his hat and his satchel.

\--

Three hours later, everyone was saddled up and on their respective horses, glowing with giddy excitement. Mary-Beth and Mrs. Trelawny were sitting on the backs of Old Belle and Gwydion, respectively, holding onto Karen’s and Trelawny’s stomachs. Tarquin and Cornelius each sat on Sadie’s and Bill’s laps with beaming smiles, as did Jack in John’s. Molly and Jude were as taken with each other as the day they’d met. Susan and Tess had mysteriously bonded - possibly through mutual death threats - as had Swanson and Senua, who both quivered idly in anticipation. Strauss sat atop his Morgan, dubbed Emma, who were both dwarfed by Pearson atop his Suffolk Punch beside them, dubbed Old Ironsides. Abigail and Tilly both shared the last remaining Tennessee Walker, a frightful thing that most of them had nicknamed Twitch. 

The Count was technically an unclaimed horse, but the stallion’s violent inclination towards anyone other than Dutch kept most away, and for the others who were willing to try out of either affection or bravado, the way the horse did little more than stand under the shade of the trees with his head hung low and hollow-eyed made them unable to bring themselves to ask anything of the stallion. 

They were all just about to roll out when they noticed that Lenny and Arthur were both missing. After only a couple minutes of confusion, the two men came riding up to the group with Hamish in tow on the back of Buell, who hollered up to the front where Hosea sat smiling incredulously, “Thought you could cut me out of a trail ride, you cold-hearted bastard?!”

“Get up here, you son of a bitch!” Hosea hollered back, beaming at his friend. The two men clapped each other warmly on the shoulder and jostled each other before Hosea turned back to the group and raised his hand. “Everybody ready?” he called out.

He was met with a loud swell of _Yea!_

Hosea grinned and turned to Karen, Javier, and Charles. “Lead the way.”

The entire rest of the day was spent riding through the Grizzlies in a massive herd, enjoying the sweet simplicity of nature and each other’s company, swapping jokes and stories and songs. Hamish dropped back and around the whole crowd, meeting each member of the gang and swapping grand tales. At some point, as they approached the cave entrance, someone began singing, swiftly joined in by several of the others.

_Oh, Shenandoah, I long to hear you  
Away, you rolling river  
Oh, Shenandoah, I long to hear you  
Away, we're bound away, across the wide Missouri _

“I wanna go on the gold horse!” Cornelius yelled from atop Brown Jack, pointing at Bob and scrambling to stand up on the saddle, making Bill dissolve into a panic. “I wanna go I wanna go I wanna go!”

Bill whined, “I thought you wanted to be tall!”

Tarquin looked back at his little brother and scowled. “ _I’m_ on the gold horse!”

Sadie snorted and roughly said, “His name’s _Bob_ , kids.” She glanced down at Tarquin and grinned. “Is there another horse you wanna go on?”

Tarquin looked around for a moment before spying Buell, his eyes widening and sparkling. “That one!”

Jack began squirming in John’s lap and making grabby-hands. “Are we swapping horses?! I wanna ride with Uncle Hosea!”

Hosea, John, Sadie, and Hamish all exchanged amused grins. “Baby swap?”

“Baby swap!”

With a bit of maneuvering, the children were exchanged from horse to horse with shrieks of _woo!_ and _wee!_

_Oh, Shenandoah, I long to see you  
Away, you rolling river  
Oh, Shenandoah, I long to see you  
Away, we're bound away, across the wide Missouri _

After exploring the cave for a few minutes, the gang turned east. Arthur rode up to Sadie’s side and grinned at her as she patiently coached Cornelius how to hold Bob’s reins. “Look at ya,” he mused softly.

Sadie smirked at him. “You over here for a _reason_ , Morgan?”

Arthur snorted and patted Killer’s neck. “I’m just wonderin’. You have your money, your weapons, your supplies, your food... Yet you’re still here. You’re runnin’ out of time to leave us, Mrs. Adler.”

Sadie smiled softly at Arthur. “Well maybe I just wanna make sure you fools head out safely before I leave. Ever thought of that?”

Arthur fondly shook his head, then side-eyed her. “You sure there ain’t any chance of you comin’ with us?” he asked quietly. “Is revenge worth that much?”

Sadie said nothing for a long moment, staring long and hard at Bob’s mane as Cornelius blinked owlishly up at her, confused. “It is to me,” she stated, her voice strained and heavy.

Arthur sighed gently but didn’t push. Instead, he simply laid a warm hand on her back as Cornelius patted his little hands on top of hers, putting together that she was sad. Sadie wrinkled her nose as her eyes grew wet.

_Tis seven long years, since last I saw you  
Away you rolling river  
Tis seven long years, since last I saw you  
Away, we're bound away across the wide Missouri _

As the gang passed Brandywine Drop, Bill trotted Brown Jack up next to Taima and looked down at Charles. “Hey, uh, Charles.”

Charles didn’t look at him. “Hey.”

“I just wanted to say, uh… Y’know, I just wanted to… Y’know…”

“No, I really don’t.”

Bill frowned and sighed, squirming in his saddle. “Just wanted to say m’sorry for the way I treated ya.”

Charles spared him a glance. “...Okay.”

Bill blinked, then blinked again. His upper lip curled back in a sneer. “ _‘Okay?’_ That’s all ya got to say?!”

“Yup,” Charles said absently.

Bill shook with rage for a few seconds more, but when he opened his mouth, it was to take in a deep breath, hold it for five seconds, then let it out slowly. He cleared his throat. “Well all right then. I’ll try and make it up to ya!” And with that, he dropped back to ride beside Javier, who nodded at him approvingly and clapped him on the shoulder with a surprised smile. Charles and Lenny exchanged a look and shrugged.

_Oh, Shenandoah, I long to see you  
Away, you rolling river  
Oh, Shenandoah, I long to see you  
Away, we're bound away, across the wide Missouri _

After circling through the pass beside the head of the Kamassa River, the gang stopped to eat and fill up any canteens they’d emptied. After the brief break, they headed west towards the last pass with Charles leading them. The children yet again wanted to swap horses, and ended up on Maggie, Senua, and Old Ironsides. 

Molly rode Jude up to Strauss’s side and smiled at him, making the man blush. A little ways away, Mary-Beth had rested her head on Karen’s shoulder and was enjoying the sensation of Karen’s head against hers, feeling the vibrations in both of their chests as they sang absently. John had dropped back to ride beside Tilly and Abigail, talking easily with them and enjoying the sights, and stuttering to a stop in shock when Abigail reached out and held his hand as they rode, leaving Tilly to snort and giggle at them. At the front, Arthur had rode up beside Charles, and both men relaxed with the other at their side. They frequently exchanged many private glances and smiles, and when Arthur shuddered into a bout of coughs, Charles rubbed his back until it passed, with Arthur squeezing his knee in thanks.

_Oh, Shenandoah, I long to see you  
Across the wide Missouri _

By the time they finished circling through the steep inclines of the pass near the Wapiti reservation and began heading home, the sun had already begun dipping below the horizon. The air was heavy with a sense of something bittersweet as everyone knew that the ride - and something greater - was coming to an end.

_Oh, Shenandoah, oh, Shenandoah, oh, Shenandoah_

The moon was climbing above the treeline and the stars were fully visible when they all returned to the homestead. Everyone got to work untacking their horses and setting them out to pasture save for Hosea and Hamish, who rode off near the barn to dismount and talk in private.

“So,” Hamish sighed, reaching out to steady Hosea after he wobbled ominously after dismounting, nursing his side, “I guess this is it?”

Hosea looked at Hamish and frowned. “Yeah. This… This is goodbye, old friend. For good, this time.”

Hamish hummed. “At least you’re actually saying goodbye to me this time instead of vanishing.” He paused for a long moment. “I thought you killed yourself when I rode up here to check on you and you were just… gone.”

Hosea leaned back against the barn and stared at the house across the yard, his eyes glassing over. “I had to get out and get gone before I did.” His skin crawled at the memory of all the times he’d caressed the cold barrel of his cattleman over his forehead or his temple. He shook himself back into the present and looked over at Hamish. “I’m sorry for not saying goodbye, Hamish. You’ve been a good friend to me. Better than I deserved.”

Hamish pinched him. “Stop that talk. It’s been an honor.” Hosea stiffened when Hamish suddenly pulled him into a hug, blinking repeatedly before wheezing a laugh and squeezing his friend tightly in return.

“So how did you like meeting the family?” he said hoarsely into Hamish’s shoulder, still not letting go.

Hamish chuckled and patted his back. “Your two hundred children are a delight, and your siblings are as crusty as you are!”

Hosea snorted and rolled his eyes. “Yeah, well, guess who Buell takes after?”

Hamish dragged in a fake gasp and swatted him, making them both dissolve into chuckles. They finally let go of each other and held each other at arm’s length, staring at each other for one last, long moment, their eyes shining and sad.

Hamish patted his cheek. “Look after that family of yours, and let them look after you.”

Hosea gave him a wobbly smile. “I will,” he promised, then added, quietly, “Goodbye, old friend.”

“Goodbye, Hosea,” Hamish replied, squeezing him one last time before turning and mounting up on Buell. The two men waved at each other one last time, then Hamish waved and called out his goodbyes to the rest of the gang, before riding out into the night.

“Well, everyone,” Hosea announced as he limped over to the center of camp, making everyone pause in what they were doing, “I say we have ourselves a good meal and then start packing up what we don’t need to sleep. We’ll head out for the Brandywine pass tomorrow morning.”

A smattering of cheers rounded around the crowd, and for the next four hours, they did just that - after filling their bellies, the homestead was abuzz with people packing up odds and ends and loading them into the wagons, alongside all the preserved food and furs they’d managed to acquire or make over the course of their stay. Hosea helped direct Lenny and Javier to load up the wagons with the separate chests of their money, carrying a grand total of thirty-eight thousand dollars. It was as everyone was just beginning to wind down from packing for the night that Hosea turned and saw a dark figure beside Bessie’s and their baby’s graves, wearing a telltale top hat.

Hosea felt his blood turn to ice. Before he was fully aware of what he was doing, he found himself marching up towards the figure.

“Can we not do this tonight?” he asked once he got close, his voice pained and exhausted.

The strange man glanced back at him from where he was looking out at the night with something in the realm of regret. “I’m afraid we must.”

Hosea sighed, clenching his jaw. “Why are you here this time?”

The strange man rolled his neck. “I’m here for my accounts. I’m an accountant. In a way.” He gestured his hand dismissively.

Hosea dragged a hand down his face. “God, enough of this. How much do I owe you?”

The strange man finally turned to face him. “Ten lives.”

Hosea and the strange man stared at each other. In the next second, Hosea drew Dutch’s Schofield and pulled the hammer back, aiming the barrel at the strange man’s head. “Do I now?”

The strange man nodded solemnly and sighed, beginning to pace. “You see, Hosea, I can appreciate what you’re trying to do. Your efforts are… intriguing. But. To use words from another world…” He stopped and turned to face Hosea. “You can’t change who you are.” He took a step closer. “You can’t erase the past.” Another step closer. “And there’s nothing you can do to make it go away.”

Hosea stared him down, resolute. “I’ve made my peace with that,” he replied, his voice calm and smooth.

The strange man huffed in amusement, nodding his head slightly. He took another step closer to the barrel of the gun. “Do you believe you are above consequence?”

Hosea didn’t blink. “No.”

The strange man gestured his head towards the others. “Do you believe they are?”

The Schofield trembled for a second. The strange man took a step closer, pressing his forehead directly against the barrel, frowning mournfully. 

“You see, Hosea… in this world… nothing is ever forgotten. Nothing is ever forgiven. And if you look down towards the base of this mountain… you will see that this world... doesn’t believe in happy endings.”

With those words, the strange man reached out his hand to rest on Hosea’s shoulder, and all at once the air drained from his lungs like he entered a vacuum. He gasped for air, but his lungs were cinched shut. He dropped the gun and fell to his knees, clutching his chest and fighting for air, and the last he saw of the strange man before his vision blacked out was that same mournful frown. The strange man’s deep voice sounded into the darkness,

“Your time has passed.”

When his vision came back a few seconds later, his lungs were open again, the strange man was gone, and he coughed and sputtered as the sound of running footsteps came up behind him.

“Hosea?!” came Arthur’s voice.

“Hosea, are you all right?!” came John’s.

Hosea snatched the dropped Schofield and shoved it in his holster, scrambling to his feet and looking desperately out over the ridge to the land below, his eyes skittering over the shadowy landscape. He spotted a massive shadow slithering its way up the trail towards Moonstone Pond and O’Creigh’s Run in the distance far below. He shoved his hands into his satchel and fumbled for his binoculars, putting them up over his eyes and clicking them twice to zoom in. Just as Arthur and John clasped his shoulders, he choked, _“No.”_

“What?!” John asked, his hands instinctively twitching towards his holsters.

Arthur fumbled into his satchel and pulled out his own binoculars as Hosea passed his pair to John. After a few seconds, they both saw it too, paling and stiffening to match Hosea.

For at the foot of the mountain, trotting determinedly up the hills into the Grizzlies with a sense of urgency and purpose in their stride, were dozens upon dozens of horsemen, their Pinkerton badges glinting in the moonlight, armed to the teeth with all kinds of gun barrels and bandoliers. At the center of their massive posse was a wooden cart pulled by two draft horses, holding a dark maxim gun and crates upon crates of ammunition. At the head of the posse, leading them all, was Agent Edgar Ross, with his cold, calculating stare trained on the trees above; Agent Andrew Milton, with his sharp, sadistic smile and glinting eyes; and riding between them both, gesturing languidly as he spoke with a hungry smirk…

...was Micah Bell.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I _promise_ no one's going to die (who we're rooting for) despite this cliffhanger haha, and there _will_ be a happy ending despite what the Strange Man says, that ornery cuss. This is _my_ world.
> 
> And now, for some Emotions About Hosea and Arthur feat. Extremely Personal Mental Health Stories because maybe this might help someone:
> 
> I really wanted to talk here for a little while about Arthur, both in the canon timeline and in this one. Namely, that he _deserves better._
> 
> This entire fic was born from that sentiment, and I flung open Google Docs as a man on a mission. I hated that Arthur was diagnosed with TB alone. I hated that he felt like he was trapped, that he couldn't _dare_ voice that something was wrong with him. I hated that he felt like he had to bear the burden of Dutch's splintering and spiraling mental health alone and take responsibility for him, and more than that, the entire gang. I hated that he thought he was a bad man who deserved to suffer and be in pain. I hated that he was beaten, I hated that one of the last sights he saw was his father abandoning him, and I hated that he died. And died alone.
> 
> This brings me to Hosea, and why it's taken so long for this fic to reach this point, and why I've characterized Hosea the way I have. As alluring as... writing Hosea being perfectly patient and capable and all-knowing and all-caring and being some kind of Superman capable of perfectly shrugging off trauma to be there for others is, it isn't the kind of story I want to write. I wanted to write Hosea being _just as bad off_ mentally as Dutch is in Chapter VI, because - fuck. Trauma and stress like this changes a person, can break a person, and unfortunately, I know that very intimately. 
> 
> I had extreme empathy for Dutch the entire time I was playing through Chapter VI, because... I and my family saw my Papa get killed, very suddenly. And in one fell swoop, I became "the man of the house." I was fresh out of high school and we lost our income, we were losing our house, I needed to find a job, and I was acting as a therapist to both my mom and my grandmother. It culminated in me having a meltdown the 4th day into my first job and having to quit, and I remember I spent the 35-minute drive back home screaming at the top of my lungs and sobbing uncontrollably as my brain gave me compulsions to jerk the wheel so I'd crash. Two years later, after trusting myself to someone who emotionally abused and gaslit and took advantage of me, my trauma mutated into a three-month-long, personality-altering psychotic episode. Only then was I diagnosed with PTSD, and I finally realized that I had a problem and that I desperately, desperately needed help.
> 
> And here's the thing - I couldn't properly be there for my loved ones. Me trying to bear the load of everything myself, neglecting myself - I wasn't being the best man I could be, and we all suffered for it. I almost died for it. Fast forward to me in the year 2020 - long after I've chosen recovery and chose myself over others and made a family of my own that I let help me - playing a game called Red Dead Redemption II for the first time. When I saw Dutch... I saw what I could have become.
> 
> Which brings me back to Hosea. The entire time I played through the game, I kept honing in so sharply on Hosea and the way he was acting, chief among them being passively suicidal. All the self-deprecating humor, the "I don't have long and need to fix things before I go"s, the frequent and utter neglect of his own health mixed with almost anticipatory announcements about how he would die soon (and making both Dutch and Arthur constantly go "Can you :( stop :( talking :( like that :( :(")... It's like, _damn_ , no wonder I've seen multiple people think Hosea is in his mid-70s with lung cancer instead of a 55-year-old whose father lived to 73. He lives like he's already dead, and is just waiting for his body to catch up. And sure, I have no doubt in my mind that Hosea's reaction to learning Arthur had TB would be light-years above and beyond Dutch's, but here's the thing: he wouldn't be his best self. And Arthur deserves only the best. _Hosea deserves only the best._
> 
> So... [gestures at these past 9 chapters] I picked Hosea up and snapped him clean in half over my knee. His arc is coming to a close, and Arthur's can now truly begin.
> 
>  **1\. Dutch van der Linde's Last Stand**  
>  **2\. Escape from Saint Denis**  
>  **3\. Escape from Lemoyne**  
>  **4\. The Letter**  
>  **5\. Reunions**  
>  **6\. Unfinished Business**  
>  **7\. I Know You**  
>  **8\. Dreams, Omens, and Other Harbingers**  
>  **9\. For Whom the Bell Tolls**  
>  10\. My First Boy


	10. My First Boy

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warning** for **misogyny, racism, ableism,** and **homophobia** because guess who's here?, **minor gore,** brief and vague references to **forced institutionalization** and **genocide** , and... **tuberculosis.**
> 
> Turns out that writing on my own time actually made me super excited about writing, and so now the chapter's done! And once again, this chapter holds a very dear place in my heart and is quite possibly my new favorite.
> 
> I hope you all enjoy the final chapter of Chapter V ♥

_ “We need to leave!” _

Everyone flinched and looked up from their various spots lounging around the fires or settling into their bedrolls. The sight of Arthur, Hosea, and John all sprinting towards them, white in the face, made practically everyone start rising to their feet in alarm.

John bolted to the sleeping forms of Abigail and Jack in their tent and collapsed over them, shaking them both gently with a quiet, strained, “Baby, we need to go, now, right now.”

Arthur sprinted past everyone towards the pasture with a harsh bark of  _ “Lenny! Charles!” _ as Hosea stopped in the light of the main fire, panting and clutching at his side, pausing only long enough to suck in a breath and yell “Everyone! Saddle up your horses! Grab only what you absolutely need, we need to go!  _ Now!” _

Lenny and Charles ran off after Arthur as loud bursts of confused noises tore from the rest; half immediately began scrambling while the others blinked owlishly, stunned.

“Wha?” Molly slurred, stumbling to her feet and fumbling for her gunbelt as Hosea flitted around shaking awake folk still sleeping and hauling them upright.

Sadie opened up her Litchfield repeater and loaded it without looking, instead keeping her eyes on Hosea and John, who was working with Abigail to desperately slam their possessions into their satchels and saddle-bags as Jack whimpered. She growled, low in the throat, “What’s coming?”

Hosea grabbed Uncle by the scruff of his neck and bodily threw him upright. “Pinkertons! A whole lot of ‘em!  _ Too damn many! _ Micah’s with them- they got guns! A bigass gun! One of those newfangled mechanical things!” He kicked Uncle in the ass to get the man into gear, and the man yelped as several of the others started sprinting with short screams of panic, knocking things over in their haste to pack.  _ “Medical supplies! Cold gear! Go go go, COME ON!” _

“What about the wagons?!” Karen yelled, sprinting up to him, wild-eyed. In the distance, Arthur, Charles, and Lenny started up a great commotion of whistles and yells as they herded all the horses up to the front of the pasture.

“What about the money?!” Susan hissed, running up to his other side.

Hosea shook his head and whirled around at everyone as he began walking backwards towards the tack shed attached to the barn. “We’re abandoning the wagons, they’ll run us down in two minutes flat! And forget the money, there’s  _ no time, goddammit! _ We got only fifteen minutes to get out of here, maybe less!  _ Javier, Bill, help me!” _ He turned and ran as Susan bolted off towards the house, but Karen remained hot on his heels. 

“How we gonna move Mary-Beth and Trelawny?!” Karen pressed, vibrating behind him as he ripped open the door and stepped inside, grabbing the first tack set he saw.

“We’re gonna have to ride with ‘em,” Hosea huffed as Javier and Bill ran up, wide-eyed and twitchy. He shoved the saddle-pad, saddle, and bridle into Bill’s arms as Arthur, Charles, and Lenny directed all the horses towards them. “You two help the other three get all these horses saddled. Karen, you do the same, I’m gonna help Susan with Trelawny and Mary-Beth.”

Karen nodded mutely, darting into the shed with Javier as Hosea sprinted off towards the house, almost colliding with five people on the way as they careened around the yard.

He exploded through the front door and was immediately met with the sight of Mary-Beth hopping on one leg, struggling to get a pair of pants on. He hurried over and helped brace her as Susan and Mrs. Trelawny moved into the living space, supporting Trelawny and carrying the children outside with urgent steps. With a pat on her back, he asked, “You okay there, cowgirl?”

Mary-Beth huffed, blushing. “I ain’t used to pants, but they seem appropriate.” She finally pulled them up over her hips and buttoned them quickly over her button-up shirt, a warm red flannel. She turned to Hosea with a strained smile and clutched his shoulder. “I grabbed you something!” She snatched something up off the couch and pressed it into his hands as she collapsed upon the cushion to shove her good foot into a boot.

Hosea huffed a teary breath at the sight of his and Bessie’s photo. He smiled at it and shoved it into his satchel before hurrying to grab Mary-Beth’s coat and wrapping it around her shoulders. “You’re a sweet girl. Now come on.”

Abandoning the crutch, Mary-Beth slung her arms around Hosea’s shoulders and bounded alongside him as he speed-walked her out the door and towards the others in the distance, scrambling around to their respective horses and fastening their saddle-bags or helping the last stragglers get their cinches buckled or their bridles on. When they entered the throng, Karen appeared almost instantly, taking Mary-Beth into her arms beside Old Belle.

Hosea turned and scanned everyone’s faces until he found the Trelawnys, looking lost. He hurried towards them as Susan looked frantically between the family of four and Gwydion.

“We’re splitting up into teams!” Hosea yelled out to the group at large, sparing them a glance. “We’re riding in small squads, splitting up and taking separate passes - better chances to evade and hide. Ride as hard and as far as you possibly can, just-  _ make it to Winnipeg! Push hard for Winnipeg!”  _ He turned back to the Trelawnys, the man himself looking ashen as Cornelius sobbed into his pant leg and Tarquin clutched at his similarly ashen mother. 

Hosea laid a hand on Josiah’s shoulder, looking between him and his wife. “Trelawny, you and the Missus are on Gwydion. I trust you to keep him from falling off, Ma’am.” He turned and bellowed  _ “Javier! Bill! Swanson!” _ In seconds, the three men hurried over, leading Boaz, Brown Jack, and Senua. “You seven are the first squad. Take the cave, you’ll be the slowest group so I want you the first to leave through the nearest pass. Bill? Javier? Protect this family with your damn lives. Swanson? Don’t let any of them die.”

The three men nodded as Mrs. Trelawny helped Josiah get up into Gwydion’s saddle. Bill immediately kneeled down next to a trembling Cornelius and asked, “Hey, kiddo, you wanna be tall again? Me and ol’ Brown Jack won’t let nothin’ happen to ya.” Cornelius nodded and sniffled and reached his arms up, prompting Bill to swing up into Brown Jack’s saddle and reach down to haul the boy up after him.

Swanson put his hand on Tarquin’s shoulder and smiled softly. “Want to ride with me, son?” Tarquin nodded numbly at him and followed the man up and onto the back of Senua.

Javier mounted Boaz and nodded at them all. “If we run into any danger, you three all run and I’ll take care of it, ¿comprenden? Bill, you protect them if we get separated.” Bill swallowed thickly but nodded as Swanson and Josiah frowned between them both.

Hosea hissed, “What are you all waiting for?  _ Go!” _ He threw up his hands for emphasis, making Senua and Gwydion skitter sideways away and towards the pasture.

The entire group began trotting away, and Hosea’s heart ached at the wide-eyed, heartbroken looks Javier, Bill, Josiah, and Swanson threw back at them all. Bill yelled, “We won’t let you down!”

_ “GO!” _ Hosea bellowed, and the group finally galloped off into the night.

Hosea turned and yelled, “Strauss, Uncle, Molly!” The three in question walked up to him on Emma, Nell II, and Jude; Strauss was trembling in fear while Molly and Uncle wore grave frowns, their hands hovering near their sidearms. “You three, take care of each other! Brandywine pass! Go!”

“Hosea-” Strauss started.

“Shut the fuck up and get the fuck out of here!” Hosea snapped. The three of them looked at each other and then at all the others with large, round, sorrowful eyes before galloping away.

When Hosea turned towards the others, his eyes caught on the sight of Tilly hyperventilating and shaking off to the side of everyone as the rest scrambled to finish tightening all the belts on the horses or were still running around. He rushed over to her and gently grasped her arm, cupping her face in his other hand. “Sweetpea, what’s the matter?”

Tilly trembled and looked up at him, terrified tears overflowing and spilling down her cheeks. “I ain’t got no horse. H-Hosea, I ain’t got no horse, Arthur and the others couldn’t find them all, we’re short- I ain’t got no horse-” She sucked in a sobbing gasp.  _ “I don’t know what to do.” _

Hosea looked at her face, looked to the others, looked out towards the path that led to the homestead, then looked to Silver Dollar, tacked up and ready and watching them. He looked back out towards the path, in the direction of their deaths, getting closer with each passing second. Part of him swore he heard the distant thunder of a hundred hooves.

He looked back into Tilly’s eyes and felt something click in his chest, unleashing a cold, resigned calm that coursed its way through his veins like water. Part of him knew that it had to be this way ever since he first spotted the posse. The sight of Tilly, looking every bit the sight of the trembling thirteen-year-old girl from when they first met, allowed the rest of him to process what needed to be done. What he had to do.

“You do know what to do,” he said gently, his voice low and smooth and calm. He backed the girl up towards Silver Dollar. “And you  _ do _ have a horse.” With firm, commanding hands, he took hers and made them grasp the reins and the saddle horn, then hoisted her up and into Silver Dollar’s saddle.

Tilly blinked at him, stunned out of her tears. The others near them slowed their movements and paused, staring. “Hosea, what… W-what…” she whimpered as Hosea took out his pump-action shotgun from his saddle, slinging it over his shoulder. Silver Dollar turned his head and looked back at him with a small, questioning nicker.

Hosea grasped and squeezed her hands in his, staring into her eyes. “Someone has to hold them off.”

There was a beat of raw silence. Tilly’s face twisted into horrified grief as she started shaking her head, faster and faster as Hosea dug through his saddle bag for what few mementos he kept, slipping them into his satchel instead. He turned to Silver Dollar and rubbed the stallion’s nose, who pressed it fully into his hand, pushing into his touch. “Take care of my baby girl for me.”

Silver Dollar made a high, pained noise. Hosea turned his head to Karen and Mary-Beth from where they sat atop Old Belle, looking at him with similar wide, teary-eyed expressions, both of them white as a sheet. After a quick glance around to complete his math and mental assortment of teams, he nodded to himself and said, “You three girls take the Wapiti pass. Go.”

_ “No,” _ Karen choked.

“I love you all. Now go.  _ Live.” _ And with that, Hosea slapped Silver Dollar’s rump and whistled sharply. Silver Dollar pinned his ears back, but followed the command, dutiful as ever, and broke into a gallop away into the distance; Tilly snatched her hand out towards him but was already out of reach. Mary-Beth let out a wail as Karen sobbed a curse and spurred Old Belle after them, and then they were gone.

When Hosea turned his head, he locked eyes with Lenny sitting atop Maggie, seething heavy breaths as tears rolled down his face. The boy bared his teeth and hissed, “You can’t do this.”

Hosea walked up to him and grasped his leg. “We ain’t got time for this. Now you, Susan, and Pearson take the cave-”

“This ain’t  _ fair!” _ Lenny screamed.

“It is fair,” Hosea countered, taking off his hat. “I founded this gang. I should be the one to go down with the ship. I’m also the oldest, and it is the duty and blessing of old men to give of themselves so that the young may flourish and create new, wondrous things.”

Lenny choked back a sob. “That’s shit philosophy.”

“Then how’s this.” Hosea placed his hat firmly on Lenny’s head and then squeezed the boy’s arm. “I love you like a son, and I  _ promised  _ I would do everything in my power to protect you. Now, you beautiful boy, you  _ brave, _ clever man, you best live and become a lawyer, for both your Daddy  _ and  _ me. Now go.”

Lenny was openly weeping now, unable to form words, and it was Susan atop Tess who opened her mouth as her eyes glistened to bark, “If this is some grand way to kill yourself-”

“It ain’t nothing like that,” Hosea interrupted, turning his head to meet her eyes. “We’ve got wounded, Susan.  _ Children. _ That posse will track them and run them down, you  _ know it, _ and  _ someone needs _ to stay behind and head them off, and I will be damned if it’s anyone other than me. This is the soundest decision I’ve ever made. Now, if you  _ love me, _ you will  _ go.” _

Lenny, Susan, and Pearson all squinted at him through their tears.

_ “Please,” _ Hosea nearly screamed, his voice breaking.

The three bared their teeth and ducked their heads, but kicked their horses forward all the same, galloping off into the dark.

Hosea finally turned to the last group, his heart thundering in his chest. Sadie, Charles, Abigail, Jack, John, and Arthur. He didn’t look at the last two’s faces. Couldn’t. Instead, he said, “Now you lot take the B-”

“Shut the fuck up.” 

Hosea’s eyes slipped to Arthur’s face involuntarily, and the calm well of determination in Hosea’s chest rippled uneasily at the look of stone-cold resolution that matched his own. With a muscle in his jaw twitching, Arthur swung down off of Killer, pulling out his Lancaster repeater and bow to sling onto his back.  _ “I’m _ stayin’.”

Hosea squared his stance and rolled his shoulders back like he was in a duel, narrowing his eyes, his spine a drawn line of finality. “There’s no convincing me to not fight. I ain’t leaving.”

Arthur scowled. “An’ neither am I.”

Hosea’s heart skipped a beat, and slowly, he shook his head. “Arthur,” he said, and he didn’t much care that his terror for the boy was steadily leaking into his voice, “we don’t have time for this, now I am  _ ordering  _ you-”

“Orderin’?” Arthur questioned, a toothy smirk playing at his lips that would make Dutch proud. “Think you forgot that you ain’t the leader of no gang no more, old man. Gang’s gone.  _ You’re family. _ And last I checked,  _ I’m _ a grown-ass man, so I ain’t gotta listen to shit you say. I’m stayin’ and fightin’ with  _ you. _ ”

“And so am I,” Charles growled, swinging off of Taima and grabbing a rifle and shotgun, cocking the shotgun’s forend by jerking the gun in the air with one hand.

Hosea trembled and quaked, his hands curling into fists.  _ “You fools,” _ he spat,  _ “you fucking morons. Damn you _ I love you both so  _ goddamn much.” _

“I can stay too,” came John’s quiet, uneven voice. All three men snapped their gazes over to him where he was staring at them all from Old Boy’s back, clutching a desperately wailing Jack to his stomach with Cain swaddled against his back in a cloth sling, his eyes wide and glassy. “I can fight.”

**_“No,”_ ** Hosea and Arthur said at the same time, crossing over to him in a few long strides to seize his arm and leg.

Arthur looked up at John and shook his arm as Hosea pressed dozens of little kisses to Jack’s face to get the boy to calm down enough to breathe. Arthur and John locked eyes, and Arthur grimaced, shaking his head. “ _ One _ of us needs to make it. Now you go and protect your family like a goddamn  _ man.” _

Hosea pressed one last, large kiss to Jack’s forehead, cupping the boy’s head, and said, “Take care of your Pa and your Mama, Sweet Prince.” Jack sniffled and nodded with a whimper, rubbing a hand down Hosea’s face. Hosea swallowed thickly and crossed around Old Boy to Abigail, where she was sitting on the back of Bob, clutching Sadie’s stomach and sobbing brokenly.

John shook his head at Arthur. “We can all still make it,” he said roughly. “Come with us!  _ Please!” _

Arthur frowned and patted at him. “Hosea’s right. They’ll just catch us if we all run.  _ Now,” _ he gruffed, taking his own hat off and shoving it firmly upon John’s head, “it would  _ mean a lot to me _ if y’all lived. You gotta get outta here, and  _ don’t look back.” _

“Hosea,” Abigail whimpered as Sadie frowned back at him.

Hosea reached into his satchel and took out all the cash he had to his name, a few thousand dollars, and shoved it into Sadie’s saddle bags. “Take this,” he huffed, then reached into his satchel again and took out Bessie’s pearl dove, shoving it into Abigail’s hand and curling her fingers around it, “and this. Sell it if you have to.”

Abigail stared down at the brooch as big, fat tears rolled down her cheeks; Arthur pressed all of his cash into John’s hands behind them. She locked her eyes onto Hosea’s and sobbed, “Oh,  _ Hosea…” _

“Don’t you ‘Oh Hosea’ me,” he chided, taking her hands in his. “You remember that moment we talked about? Where you need to leave me to live? This is that moment. You go and you  _ live _ , sweetheart. You and that sweet boy and that silly man of yours.”

Abigail whimpered, but nodded. Hosea crossed back around Old Boy as Arthur went to Abigail and Sadie, and the sight of Arthur’s hat on John’s head made his eyes sting. John’s broken, teary-eyed expression made them sting even more.

Hosea quickly pulled his customized pocket watch out of his vest and pressed it into John’s hand, then dug into his satchel and pulled out Dutch’s red handkerchief with its gold embroidered initials,  _ VDL _ , wrapping it around John’s neck and tying it in a gentle knot. “Now there ain’t much time for talk,” Hosea said roughly, his voice wavering with emotion, “but no matter what happens, know that I’ll always love you, son, and that Dutch always loved you, too.”

John numbly gaped down at him, a single tear escaping the well in his eyes.

Arthur looked at Sadie from his embrace with Abigail. “You take care of them, Mrs. Adler. They’re gonna need you, y’hear?”

“Of course,” Sadie said, low and soft. “I’ll get them to Winnipeg, I swear it.” 

All of them looked back towards the direction of the path to the homestead and the shadowy woods that shrouded it, where a growing rumble and rustle of horse hooves was slowly but steadily approaching, along with the tinkling of metal.

“Get the  _ hell out of here!” _ Arthur roared, backing away.

John and Sadie sidled Old Boy and Bob towards the pasture. Sadie called out to Charles, “Protect these fools!”

“I will!” Charles called back.

“Arthur,” John choked out, looking at the man as Old Boy continued anxiously sidling away. “You’re my brother!” He turned his head to look at Hosea, sucking in a breath. “Hosea! You’re my Pa!”

All the air was punched out of Hosea’s lungs and three tears slipped down his cheeks at the sound of the word. Arthur bit his lip and nodded back, calling back a gruff, “I know.”

“I love you!  _ Brother! Pa!” _

_ “Run!” _ Hosea begged.

John and Sadie finally turned their stallions and spurred them into a dead sprint away and into the night. Hosea turned back to Arthur and Charles, desperately wiping at his cheeks and stumbling out the words, “Now, I’m thinking- I run distraction, Charles- you take cover by the ammunition wagon- Arthur, you take a sniper’s perch on top of the barn.”

“Take Killer,” Arthur said quickly, shoving the horse’s reins toward him, but before any of them could do anything, they heard a distinct sharp, piercing cry come from the pasture. They turned just in time to see The Count jump the fence and run up to them all, tossing his head and dancing on his feet, neighing loudly.

The stallion locked eyes with Hosea, the fire ignited in them again, and the man incredulously shook his head and huffed. “I think I got a volunteer. Now scram!”

Arthur and Charles both hissed at their horses to run off before hurrying to their respective positions. Hosea darted into the tack shed and grabbed the last tack left - Bessie’s, with her blue patterned saddle-pad and light brown bridle and saddle with little dove carvings. He hurried out and slung the pad and saddle over The Count’s back, pausing only to slip the bit into the stallion’s mouth and fasten it quickly around his head, then did up the cinch, lightning-quick. He was about to swing up into the saddle before he hesitated, looking into The Count’s eye. “If you buck me off, this will all be very anticlimactic.”

The Count made a low, guttural noise and stamped at the ground.

Hosea mounted up on the stallion just as the posse emerged from the treeline. He maneuvered The Count at a calm walk out to the middle of the yard, where he stopped to face the trio that emerged up the slope, schooling his expression into an icy cold mask that juxtaposed against the warm campfires that still burned brightly behind him.

Milton, Ross, and Micah rode up into the edge of the yard, then halted, Milton’s raised fist signaling the posse behind him to do the same. He met Hosea’s eyes with a hungry, sharp-toothed smile. “Why,  _ hello, _ Mr. Matthews. How very nice it is to see you again.”

Hosea’s skin crawled at the sound of the man’s voice, and he tried to repress a shiver at the memory of being powerless and helpless at the man’s hands. He clenched his jaw before answering with his own cold, hollow smile. “Oh, the pleasure is  _ mine, _ Mr. Milton. Has Saint Denis been treating you well since you failed to protect the Lemoyne National Bank?”

Milton’s smile sagged only for a moment. “Splattering Mr. van der Linde across the ground was worth the price.”

Hosea spied both Ross and Micah looking analytically around the homestead and knew he had to keep them distracted, keep them talking. He turned his gaze to Micah, knowing he could always count on that man to run his mouth for eons.  _ “Mr. Bell, _ I believe I told you what would happen if you sought us out again.”

Micah, predictably, stopped scanning his eyes around to lock them on Hosea. He was so similar to Milton in so many ways - both men so eager in their sadism and drive to play mind games with their victims that they left their flanks open, and both men were proving that now, all eyes on Hosea. Ross was the only wild card - a quiet and steely man that Hosea could not for the life of him get a proper read on, outside of the fact he was almost mechanically cold and calculating.

Micah pulled his lip up in a sneering smile. “Where’d all your baby chickies run off to, Mama Hen? We want them to come out and play!”

Hosea slid his eyes over to Ross, hoping to get the man to look over. “They’re nowhere where you’ll find them now. It’s just little old me.”

Micah turned his head slightly towards Milton and Ross, who both looked over to him. “The gang would never abandon their leader, they’re too  _ sentimental _ . You waiting to ambush us, ‘Old Girl’?”

A spike of genuine rage flickered across Hosea’s features before he smothered it down, but then he consciously decided to let it show. If putting on a performance of making them think they were getting to him would drag this out, so be it. “You keep that name out of your sick mouth,” he hissed, trembling. “There’s only one man who gets to call me that. A man  _ you _ once swore  _ allegiance to.” _

Micah splayed his hands out in a casual shrug; a quick glance showed that Milton was watching the exchange with an amused smirk, but Ross had gotten bored and was scanning their surroundings again. Micah licked his lips and said, “I did. Once. Back when I thought he had  _ potential. _ But he always let himself be weakened and held back by  _ parasites  _ that fed off of him and chained him down, letting-” Micah scrunched his face up in revulsion “ _ -women _ run with him, dragging around invalids and savages, letting himself get cowed by his  _ bitch _ .” Micah leveled him with a pointed glare. “Everything would’ve been better if it was you that died instead of him _.” _

Hosea quirked an eyebrow. “Don’t get your bloomers in a twist just ‘cause you couldn’t twist him into a second coming of your Daddy.”

Micah’s eyes nearly bulged out of his head as his mouth contorted itself into a snarl, his hand flashing down to his gun-

“Mr. Bell,” Milton cooed. A warning. Ross now had his eyes locked on Micah, who was hissing a breath out through his teeth and smothering his anger down, glaring sidelong at the two men.

“I spared your life  _ twice, _ Micah,” Hosea continued. “I made leaving  _ your _ choice. You could have had a  _ home _ here. Is this really how you repay me?”

Micah settled down and turned back to leer at him. “Aww, them’s  _ real  _ pretty words, Old Girl-” Hosea bared his teeth “-but you see, the way I see it, there’s just two sides to pick from. Winners, and losers.  _ Living, _ and  _ dying.” _ He gestured his head towards Milton and Ross, who fixed Hosea with prim smiles. “And I know who the winners are.”

Hosea huffed to himself in quiet amusement, then repeated the exact words Dutch said to him on that fateful night they met each other, when he himself, twenty-six years younger, had pulled the same philosophy on him. “Then I feel sorry for you and your meaningless existence.”

Micah drew his gun-

_ “Mr. Bell,” _ Ross barked.

Milton reached his hand out and slowly pushed Micah’s hand back down, relaxed and casual, keeping his gaze locked on Hosea. “I think that’s quite enough out of you both.” He then called out in a high, projecting voice, obviously meant to be heard not only by Hosea but from wherever else the gang may be hiding,  _ “Now. _ On behalf of Cornwall Kerosine and Tar, the United States Government, and the great state of West Elizabeth, I have come to arrest you.  _ Mr. Matthews, _ I have shown your lot mercy before, and you mistook it for  _ weakness. _ Now, I have come to show you strength - though you may mistake it for  _ brutality. _ You have until the count of five to come on out-”

Hosea looked to Micah and called over Milton’s voice,  _ “Do you really think they’ll let you go after this?! They’re playing you!” _

Micah and Ross locked gazes as Milton projected his voice even louder,  _ “-and surrender peacefully, or we will push in and route you out and slaughter each and every last-” _

Hosea yelled again, squeezing his legs around The Count to let the stallion know he may need to run at any moment,  _ “After they kill us, there’s just one more left!” _

_ “THAT’S ENOUGH!” _ Milton bellowed, and he raised his hand to begin signaling the posse behind him, who all cocked their guns-

Hosea heard the loud rattle of one of the wagons behind him start moving, faster and faster as it rolled down the incline of the land towards the path, but he knew not to look. He kept his eyes locked on Ross, Milton, and Micah as he signaled The Count to drift sideways out of the way. Ross and Milton both turned their gazes onto the wagon and stared at it, eyes widening as they bared their teeth, trying to figure out the trick. Micah, however, knew the gang. He knew the way they worked, the way they thought, the kinds of strategies they favored. And so it was that Micah only spared the wagon the briefest glance before he immediately flicked his eyes to the top of the barn.

Hosea saw the exact moment that Micah locked on to something, his eyes widening slightly, pupils contracting as they found their target. He saw the exact moment that a victorious smirk began flexing the muscles around his mouth. Saw the exact moment the muscles under his jacket started flexing to snap his guns up and make the kill.  _ To kill Arthur. _

Three gunshots rang out in less than half a second.

Hosea frowned down the length of Dutch’s smoking Schofield at the image of Micah turning to look at him, stunned and slightly impressed before the life went out of him like a snuffed candle, a gory crater where his nose used to be with another crater in his chest. The third one must have missed. Hosea reckoned he didn’t do half bad - Dutch may have been the master marksman, but Hosea always had the quickest draw. 

Micah’s corpse fell off a screaming Baylock, and then many things happened at once.

A flaming arrow shot from the top of the barn hit the wagon as it rushed past Hosea, blocking his vision of Milton and Ross but illuminating the boxes upon boxes upon boxes within it that read  _ Dynamite  _ and  _ Gunpowder  _ and  _ Bullets. _ Simultaneously, Hosea positioned his knee to turn The Count and spurred the stallion into a gallop off to the side, drawing the second Schofield. The second Milton and Ross were visible again, Hosea raised both guns and fired,  _ fourfivesixseven, _ squeezing and positioning his knees again to make The Count skid and turn on a dime, kicking up huge plumes of dirt as Ross’s and Milton’s retaliatory bullets whistled and screamed past his ear, his stomach, The Count’s head, one of them punching through his coat with a sharp tug.  _ Eightnineteneleventwelve. _

Milton screamed and clutched his stomach, falling off his horse, as Ross’s horse tripped and slammed into the ground, pinning the man underneath it. The posse behind them were completely oblivious to the peril of their commanding officers, their attention entirely focused on the flaming ammunition wagon barreling towards them, making their horses scream and spook and bolt and buck while what few men were capable of speech shrieked  _ “Scatter!”  _ The driver of the maxim gun wagon was desperately trying to whip the horses into turning the wagon around and running, but bailed out of the wagon at the last second before the ammunition wagon slammed into it, tipping it over and snapping the axle off, allowing the draft horses to dart into the distance as the flaming ammunition wagon settled over all the ammunition for the maxim gun-

**_BOOM._ **

The ground trembled enough to make The Count stumble as they pulled up next to Charles where the man was taking cover, rifle at the ready. Huge shadows of dirt and debris were flung up high into the sky in huge arcs along with a great fireball, and Hosea and Charles were forced to duck and shield their heads as soil and wood and flaming scraps of canvas rained over them. Some trees were groaning low and loud and ominous, sinking further and further sideways as their leaves caught flame. A cacophony of loud  _ pops  _ rippled out suddenly as bullets began exploding and shooting off in every direction from the inferno. The Pinkertons were a screaming, chaotic mess in the distance.

Charles popped up out of cover with a calm eye and fired his rifle once, twice, thrice, and Hosea finally recovered enough to look over and spy Milton dragging Ross behind the cover of the barn, both men’s faces twisted in pain, as Ross took pot shots at them. When they were finally out of sight, Charles and Hosea shared a look.

_ “Heh,” _ Hosea huffed, desperately reloading the Schofields with shaking fingers, “now  _ that  _ was a good fucking plan.” He turned his head up and spied Arthur looking down at them from the roof of the barn, which was catching fire alongside the house as flaming debris rained on their roofs.  _ “Let’s get the fuck out of here!” _

Arthur and Charles both whistled sharply for their horses, and Taima and Killer were there in seconds; Arthur shouldered his bow and leapt from the roof to land in his saddle as Killer ran past, backlit by flame, and spurred the stallion to join Hosea and Charles where they were wheeling their horses around to face the Pinkertons, who were rapidly recovering and regrouping. 

“Let’s lead them on a merry chase to the West, shall we boys?” Hosea prompted, his voice dripping with fondness. With a flick of the reins, The Count reared up with a piercing cry, making Killer and Taima toss their heads as Arthur and Charles smirked with their own guns drawn, and Hosea held up his pistol to holler at the riders coming towards them,  _ “You want some outlaws? Come and get ‘em!” _ And, because he always appreciated a flare for the dramatic, added a piercing  _ “Yeehaw!” _

The Count, Killer, and Taima all dug in their rear hooves and  _ launched  _ themselves away towards the edge of the ridge that surrounded the front of the property, barely missing a hail of bullets that whizzed through the air where they’d just been standing. At the edge of the rock, the men collected their horses’ gates and guided them into jumping onto the ground below, still dodging bullets, where they swiftly recovered and extended themselves into dead sprints through the trees. 

_ “They’re getting away!” _ one of the Pinkertons cried behind them as they burst through the trees onto the trail, and a swift glance over his shoulder showed a group of roughly twenty riders who’d managed to both maintain their horses and their nerves enough to pursue them. He spurred The Count hard westward, and the boys followed close behind.

Arthur turned in his saddle with a snarl as bullets whizzed past them and lifted his Lancaster, but Hosea yelled over the din, “Kill them only as a last resort! Let’s try and lose them first!”

Arthur bared his teeth but nodded, his rifle shaking and sinking downwards, and the three men turned their horses quickly into the skinny, twisting side trails that led up into the mountains. They gained some distance as the squadron behind them was forced to slow down, scrambling to ride in single file.

“Good job!” Hosea called back to the two boys, breathless. “Keep  _ pushing!”  _

Charles nodded, sweat dripping down his temple, but a glance at Arthur showed his posture far looser than normal, hunched over his saddle and swaying dangerously with each turn they took. Hosea honed his senses in on the boy, and he finally heard the harsh rasp and rattle that screeched out of his lungs with each breath under the thunder of hooves, whistle of wind, and cracks of gunfire. Then came a cough. Then another, then another, and another and  _ another, _ harsh and massive and shuddering and violent and wet. Before Hosea fully processed what was happening, Killer flattened his ears and looked back at Arthur with wide eyes, slowing down just in time for Arthur to fall from his saddle and onto the ground behind them.

Hosea leaned harshly back in the saddle and The Count skidded to a halt, Charles and Taima doing the same only a second later. Whipping the stallion around and spurring him towards the boy, Hosea choked out a frantic “Arthur!”, leaping out of the saddle before The Count even came to a stop to stumble his way over and fall to his knees beside him, clutching him as he curled up into the fetal position and hacked and shuddered and wailed for air, shivering in pain as thick, dark liquid splattered out of his mouth to color his lips and beard in the light of the moon.

Hosea trembled, chanting, “Arthur, Arthur, Arthur-!” getting more and more desperate with each repetition of the name. He curled over the man’s frame as if he could shield him from what was happening.  _ “Arthur?!” _

Hosea clutched Arthur to his chest, tilting him upright and leaning him over so that he could cough the liquid - the  _ blood  _ \- out of his throat and not choke. He spotted Charles walk up to them out of the corner of his eye, his entire body tense, standing on tip-toe.

_ “There they are!” _

Both men snapped their heads around to see the shadowy figures of Pinkertons begin winding through the mountain trail as Arthur hacked his lungs apart. Hosea looked up at Charles and met the man’s eyes from where he sat cradling the man he loved as a son, pale and trembling, petrified tears forming in his eyes, speechless under the weight of his terror.

A muscle in Charles’s jaw ticked and the man drew his bow, pulling out a particularly bulky arrow from a hidden area on his saddle, pulling a match from his pocket and lighting it on the side of his boot. A fuse lit on the arrow - Hosea realized there was a stick of dynamite tied to it - and Charles quickly nocked it and drew the string back, firing the dynamite arrow towards the loose rocks above the exit of the trail. It exploded, splitting the rock, making it shudder and slide in a massive rockfall to cover the trail and cut them off from the pursuing squadron.

“Doctor,” Hosea choked out immediately as soon as that threat was dealt with. “Doctor, he needs a doctor-! He-! Charles, I can’t lift him, I can’t-!” He hauled upwards on Arthur, cursing the fifty pounds the man had on him and the way the wound in his side threatened to rip wide open. “Charles, I  _ can’t-!” _

“I got him,” Charles said quietly, only the barest hint of a tremor in his voice, and knelt down to scoop Arthur into his arms. Hosea sprang up and vaulted into The Count’s saddle, watching as Charles gingerly heaved Arthur onto the back of Taima and swung up into the saddle in front of him, wrestling to keep a firm hold on him so that he didn’t collapse to the ground again. 

“Doctor-” Hosea choked out again, riding The Count up close to their side. “Where-?!”

“The Wapiti Reservation!” Charles said immediately, more sweat dripping down his temples despite the night chill, kicking Taima into a sprinting gallop as he clutched Arthur against his side. Hosea and Killer kept pace close behind. “They’re closest! They’re our best shot!”

They rode fast and hard, flying around bends and charging up the Dakota River, the both of them speaking strings of gentle phrases to Arthur, a litany of  _ “Hang on Arthur” _ and  _ “We got you” _ and  _ “We’re almost there,”  _ until finally they thundered across a bridge and spotted the reservation in the distance.

As they entered the reservation at an urgent walk, many people of the Wapiti tribe paused in what they were doing to stare at them in surprise, confusion, or wariness from amongst their tipis and shacks. Scores of them looked sick as well, with torturously thin frames and frail postures, curled up on the ground near their homes with sunken eyes. It was with a pang of guilt that Hosea yelled,  _ “Help! _ Is there a doctor?! Can anyone please help us find a doctor?!”

Eagle Flies came around a corner and saw them, taking in Hosea’s raw panic and Charles’s mute fear, with Arthur barely conscious and wheezing desperately behind him, blood at the corners of his mouth. With quick, purposeful footsteps, Eagle Flies motioned them after him and strode purposefully towards a tipi. “Father! It’s Charles and Arthur! Arthur needs medical attention!”

An older gentleman with a worn, weathered face emerged from the tipi and looked at them all with tired eyes. Hosea recognized the man from Bronte’s gala and Dutch’s talk as Rains Fall, the Chief of the Wapiti, and he would have been humbled if not for the vat of primal fear his brain was swimming in. Rains Fall laid a thankful hand on Eagle Flies’s shoulder before gesturing for them to dismount their horses. Charles and Hosea did so, both moving immediately to help ease Arthur off of Taima, each slinging one of his arms around their shoulders to half-support, half-carry him. They followed Rains Fall to a tipi on the outskirts of the others, where he pulled back a flap and gestured them inside. 

Hosea and Charles gingerly set Arthur down amongst a nest of furs and pillows, neither of them willing to let him go as they helped support him into sitting upright. They vaguely heard Rains Fall and Eagle Flies talking outside, but all Hosea could focus on in the harsh lantern light was Arthur’s face. Deep, dark circles were sunk beneath his bloodshot eyes, his skin was paler than he’d ever seen it, and the sickly blush had escalated to harsh spreads of blue and green and pink. Sweat poured from him, matting his hair as it clung to his face, yet he still shivered, violently, still quaking with the occasional harsh cough that leaked white phlegm. His eyes were clouded with the fog of exhaustion and pain, and they could tell he was fighting to keep his eyelids open. A bead of blood slid down his lower lip.

Charles pressed his forehead to the back of Arthur’s head as Hosea pulled Arthur’s hair back and tucked it behind his ears with a shaking hand, murmuring, “We’re getting you some help, Arthur, we’re getting you some help, you just hang on, stay with me, stay with me, okay? Stay with me.”

“I am,” Arthur rasped, weak and faint. Hosea pressed a kiss to his hair.

It wasn’t long until a white man in a U.S. Army uniform entered the tipi, setting down a toolbox of medical supplies and taking off his hat as he knelt down in front of Arthur. He made to hold out his hand, then seemed to think better and apologetically pulled it back. He took careful note of how Arthur and Hosea were tense at the sight of him. “Mr. Morgan, my name is Captain Monroe, of the 116th Infantry Regiment, acting as a liaison between the Wapiti and the Federal Bureau of Indian Affairs. I have extensive training as a medic and I’m here to help you.”

Charles squeezed Arthur’s shoulder and quietly said, “We can trust him.”

At Charles’s assurance, Arthur slowly relaxed, nodding weakly. “A’right.”

Captain Monroe busied himself prepping his supplies, making sure to politely meet Arthur’s eyes as he asked, “What are your symptoms, Sir?”

A loud wheeze whistled out of Arthur’s lungs that may have been an attempt at a laugh. “I think you can  _ hear  _ it.” Hosea squeezed Arthur’s shoulder chastisingly, and Arthur tiredly continued, “Bad cough… pain…”

Captain Monroe blinked. “Where?”

“Chest.”

“How long have you had this cough?”

“‘Bout… three weeks?”

Monroe frowned, squinting. “What about  _ any _ cough, not just bad? Have you been experiencing any fatigue? How long?”

Arthur squirmed slightly, his head sinking lower before saying, quietly, “Well… it  _ started… _ ‘bout… a lil’ over a month ago…”

Hosea and Charles both snapped their gazes to him, wide-eyed. Arthur hid his face.

Monroe leaned forward, his eyes widening in urgency as they skimmed over the white phlegm and blood at the corners of his mouth. “Have you been having night sweats? Severe loss of appetite?”

Arthur nodded. “Yeah.”

“Any nausea, vomiting, or diarrhea?”

Arthur weakly shook his head. “None.”

Monroe clenched his jaw, then grabbed a stethoscope and stuck it into his ears, holding the bottom to Arthur’s chest. “Can you take a deep breath for me?” Arthur did. Monroe almost cringed at whatever he heard. Setting the stethoscope aside, he grabbed a tongue depresser and a lantern, holding them both up towards Arthur’s face. “Can you open your mouth for me?” Arthur did, and Monroe pressed his tongue down, using the lantern to peer down his throat.

His pupils contracted at what he saw, his expression shuttering. Slowly, he removed the depresser and set the lantern aside, throwing the wood into a waste bin, along with the gloves he wore. He paused, then, his back towards them, tense.

“What is it?” Arthur asked quietly. Charles tightened his hold as Hosea slipped his hand down to take Arthur’s, squeezing it and running his thumb over the boy’s knuckles.

Captain Monroe turned around with his gaze cast low and respectful. Slowly, he looked up at them all - at Charles, at Hosea, and finally, at Arthur, his eyes wide and sympathetic, his mouth a soft arc of condolence.

“I’m real sorry, Mr. Morgan, but… I’m afraid you’ve got tuberculosis.”

  
  
  
  
  
  


No one moved.

No one spoke.

A burning hot tear slipped down Hosea’s cheek.

Charles stared, wall-eyed and pale.

Arthur had no reaction at all.

Captain Monroe looked between them all, his expression falling even further. 

“What…” Hosea started, voice faint and distant, sounding to his own ears like it was miles away. He squeezed Arthur’s hand tightly and curled around his shoulder, sliding his other arm around him to squeeze him to his chest. “What do we  _ do?” _

A desperate plea. Because he knew. He knew about tuberculosis.  _ Consumption. _ Named so for the way it slowly ate people alive, killing off everything they were, body, spirit, and soul in a slow, sickening  _ crawl _ until they were reduced to nothing but husks of agony begging for death. A shadow on his peripheral his entire life. It had taken his grandmother, his uncle. Scores of other people in every town and every city he’d ever been in, leaving gaping holes in the middle of families like bullet scars, wiping out entire shanty towns and tribes like the world’s slowest wildfire. A serial killer of the poor and malnourished. 

And Arthur…

And…  _ Arthur… _

Hosea felt himself sink into the same numb void he did when Bessie stopped breathing and Dutch went limp in his arms.

Captain Monroe looked at him with mournful, empathetic eyes. “There’s truly… nothing for it. I’m… I’m sorry.”

_ “Bullshit,”  _ Charles snarled. “Come on. It’s not a death sentence. It’s  _ not. _ I’ve known people who survived it. How do they do it?! What do we need to do?!”

Captain Monroe nodded, straightening up. “It’s true, there  _ are  _ folk who survive it. About 1 in 3 if caught early in good living conditions.” He glanced at Arthur and every man knew that they failed that particular window spectacularly. “The best thing for it is to get to an area with clean, warm, dry air, and  _ plenty of _ it, to get plenty of rest, plenty of food, and plenty of gentle exercise.” He eyed them doubtfully. “Is that… possible…? For you gentlemen?”

Arthur finally spoke, a low, defeated,  _ bitter, _ “No.”

The word made a lightning bolt flash through the void in Hosea’s chest, igniting him all at once in a whirlwind of righteous determination, an inferno of rage, the love of a father pouring forth and coursing through his veins like the force of nature it was.

_ “Yes,”  _ he snarled, vibrating and clutching Arthur tighter.

Arthur weakly shook his head and looked at him, resigned. “Canada-”

_ “Fuck Canada,” _ Hosea spat.

Arthur frowned and tensed under Hosea’s and Charles’s hands. “But the others-”

“But  _ you,” _ Charles growled, his expression open and soft and caring despite his tone.

Arthur’s expression shuttered, something dark passing over his eyes as they became glassy and far away.

“We-” Hosea panted, “We have safehouses in New Austin, we could-”

Monroe held up an urgent hand. “Oh, I don’t recommend going to New Austin, Sir, the air is too dusty and they’ve been having great trouble getting clean water in that state.”

Charles and Hosea shared a look.

“But…” Monroe continued, “there are a few sanatoriums you could go to, if you can get to them.”

Hosea clenched his jaw. “...We don’t have any money.”

Charles shifted protectively around Arthur. “And I’ve heard stories. Chains on beds. Starvation. Abuse.”

Monroe flicked his eyes to the left, frantically trying to remember something. “There… There’s  _ one  _ you can go to. It’s in- in-” He snapped his fingers, then beamed, looking at them excitedly.  _ “Denver. _ Denver, Colorado. National Jewish Health Sanatorium, it’s set to open this year, may even already be! It’s funded and set up by the Jewish folk there, intended to be entirely free and to serve only the penniless. They’re  _ good people. _ All the boys in Washington dealing in national health have been keeping close tabs on it. Now, I know there are trains that run to Denver in both Saint Denis and Blackwater-” Arthur made a low, cruel noise “-and I reckon that’s your best bet. Here.” Captain Monroe suddenly dug around in his satchel and pulled out a money clip, shuffling closer to hand it to Charles. “That’s my month’s salary. Hopefully it can get you gentlemen there.”

Charles blinked down at the money, then back to Captain Monroe. “We can’t possibly-”

Hosea let go of Arthur’s hand to pluck the money from Charles’s and slip it into his satchel. He then pulled out his handkerchief and wiped at Arthur’s mouth, cleaning away the phlegm and the blood, channeling all of his love into his hand. “Thank you, Captain,” he said softly, without looking away from his work, trusting that his trembling gratitude was evident in his voice.

Captain Monroe smiled softly at the three. “Let me go get you gentlemen some food and water and ask Chief Rains Fall if you can stay the night, I’m most certain he’ll say yes.”

Hosea and Charles nodded their thanks, and then all of the sudden they were alone.

The dark shadow was still over Arthur’s eyes, which were still staring at the ground, unseeing and misting slightly. He slowly shook his head, screwing them shut, rocking himself back and forth slightly.

“It’s going to be okay,” Charles said quickly.

“We’re going to take care of you,” Hosea added.

Arthur’s breath picked up, high and rapid and uneven, whistling and shuddering with the effort. Arthur suddenly snapped his eyes wide open, his hands curling into tense claws as his muscles wound up like a compressed spring.  _ “Let go,” _ he choked, desperately,  _ “now!” _

Hosea and Charles did so immediately, and the moment they were no longer touching him, Arthur slammed his fist down onto the ground with a loud  _ thud, _ then slammed it again and again and again, his fingers catching on a pillow which he immediately snatched and ripped in half, sending an explosion of down feathers out and around them, which only seemed to upset him more as he dropped the pillow and clawed at his head, ripping out a fistful of hair-

“Arthur,” Hosea started chanting, gentle and commanding, “Arthur, hey, Arthur, Arthur, Arthur look at me, hey-”

Arthur stopped, his eyes still wide and fully glassed over and far away, still clutching the fistful of his own hair as he started coughing weakly, collapsing down onto his elbows.

“Arthur, can I touch you?”

Arthur hyperventilated and coughed on the ground, but didn’t say anything, so Hosea made no move, instead opting to gently chant, “We’re right here, Arthur. We’re right here.”

Eventually, Arthur sank further and further down until he collapsed on the ground, using the last of his strength to curl in on himself and cover his head, choking out a raw, agonized,  _ “Dammit.” _

Charles and Hosea both curled towards him - not touching, but there, their expressions pained and understanding.

Finally, Arthur's strained voice wheezed out, "I ruined everything."

Hosea felt his heart splinter as Charles demanded, blunt, "How?"

Arthur trembled. "Y’two should just leave me."

"Not going to happen,” Hosea said firmly. 

“You  _ should,” _ Arthur ground out, and the wetness of his inhale wasn’t from his lungs, but his tears. He lowered his hands to try and look at them through his hair. “You both know I’m jus’ gonna die... Don’t throw your lives away ‘causa me... Leave me behind and go to the others...”

Charles leaned closer, resting his weight on one hand, his expression drawn tight. “We  _ don’t know _ that. Arthur, if there’s  _ any  _ chance you can live, we have to  _ take it.” _

“By goin’ to Blackwater? To  _ Saint Denis?” _ Arthur shuddered. “Ain’t no way we can get to Denver... Even if we do, y’all drop me off in some... institution... and what? Live like city folk for the months... or years... it takes me t’die?”

Charles let out a tense exhale and sat back on his calves, rocking himself slightly. “We’ll manage.”

“Not this time,” Arthur said, his voice suddenly dull with an eerie note of calm. With a string of winces and rattling grunts, he rolled over onto his back and lolled his head towards Charles, reaching out a hand which Charles quickly clasped in both of his. “I need you… to look after Hosea…” Charles clenched his jaw. “You take him to Winnipeg... you find the others-”

Hosea shifted himself closer to Arthur’s head and leaned in so that Arthur could meet his eyes. “I’m not abandoning you,” he stated, his voice wrapped in steel. “I made a promise to you, son, and I don’t intend on breaking it now.”

Arthur frowned at him, his eyes impossibly tired and sad. “Y’ain’t abandonin’ me... if I’m  _ askin’ _ ya to leave... ‘Sea... the others  _ need you-” _

_ “YOU NEED ME!”  _

Arthur’s eyes flew open as Hosea seized the front of his shirt and hauled him upright to stare into his eyes, streaming tears down his cheeks, his face still red and the air still echoing from the force of his piercing scream. “Why does it have to be you?” Hosea continued, voice cracked and split, high and shrill. “Why does it always have to be  _ you?! _ You always do this, neglecting yourself and putting yourself in danger with a bunch of  _ sacrifice  _ plays for everyone other than yourself! The first one there and the last to leave, working yourself to the bone, skipping meals so that others can eat, always asking what you can do for us- Well _ tell me this, son,  _ how about you let us make  _ our own damn choices _ to take care of  _ you  _ for once?!”

The voice tried to slither under his skin to make a comment, but Hosea mentally shoved it into a dark cupboard of his mind and slammed the door shut, locking it. This wasn’t about him. It was about  _ Arthur.  _

Arthur gaped at him for a long moment, tears forming in his eyes, before his expression crumbled. The man hitched a breath, then another, then started weeping, reaching out for him and Charles both. The two men immediately ensconced him in their arms, squeezing him tightly and gently swaying with him as he wept, shivering from the pain that sobbing brought him.

Eventually, Arthur’s sobs quieted and his breathing slowed, strained as it was. Shortly after that, they heard a snore.

Hosea pressed one last kiss to Arthur’s hair, then gently shifted his weight onto Charles, meeting the boy’s eye. He rasped, voice shot to hell, “Watch him. I’m going to go see what’s taking Captain Monroe so long, he needs to eat before he sleeps tonight.”

Charles nodded mutely, repositioning Arthur to lean against his chest as he slept, held close and secure in Charles’s arms as the man looked down at him with a pale, pained expression. It was so like his own when Bessie first got sick-

“Guns.”

Hosea blinked. “Huh?”

Charles slid his eyes over to him with a stern frown. “Guns. Knife. Leave them here.”

Hosea blinked again, then sighed, tired and fond and sad. “Arthur told you?”

His only answer was a simple, soft, “Yes.”

With heavy limbs, Hosea took out both Schofields and his hunting knife and laid them down on the furs beside Charles. When that was done, he laid a warm, heavy, affectionate hand on Charles’s head, then left the tipi through the flap.

After a few minutes of wandering around the reservation, he finally found Captain Monroe knelt over a sick child near a family’s tipi, all of whom watched anxiously as the man coaxed a spoonful of medicine into the sickly child’s mouth from where they were propped up against his knee. Hosea bit his lip and ducked his head, attempting to tiptoe away-

“Ah! Sir!”

Hosea turned around with a patient smile, raising his hands apologetically. He cleared his throat and tried to raise his hoarse voice loud enough to be heard. “Captain. I didn’t mean to intrude.”

Captain Monroe finished screwing the lid back onto the bottle of medicine and rubbed the child’s shoulders, frowning at Hosea. “I apologize, Sir, I’ve gotten mighty distracted. The Wapiti are in the middle of a disease outbreak and I do  _ not  _ have the proper supplies to deal with it adequately, courtesy of the  _ local regiment, _ so I find myself trapped doing damage control." He handed the child back to the desperate arms of their parents. “These people have to come first.”

Hosea’s eyes scanned over the family as they retreated back into their tipi before returning to Monroe’s figure. “Do you need any help?”

Captain Monroe threw a glance back at him, moving over to an elderly woman curled in the lap of her husband. “I- That’s mighty kind of you, Sir. Perhaps we could discuss things in the morning? Chief Rains Fall is nearby, I’m sure he can show you where to get some food and clean water.”

Hosea nodded absently with a quiet, “Thank you.” He blinked, took a deep breath, then continued his search around the reservation.

“Are you Mr. Morgan?”

Hosea paused and turned, spying Rains Fall stepping tiredly out of the shadows of the night.

“I…” Hosea shook his head, then wheezed, “No, I- My name is Hosea Matthews.” He squinted at the man. “I thought you and Arthur knew each other?”

Rains Fall fixed him with a look that simultaneously made his hair stand on end and put him at ease. “Yes. Though, you are his father, are you not?”

Hosea’s heart stuttered. “I… I…” He shook his head, then started trembling, hot tears welling in his eyes again. He was struggling to breathe, but not from any attack. Rains Fall stepped closer to him with a soft frown, eyes full of empathy, and before Hosea knew it his legs were giving out from under him, sending him crashing to his knees as a roaring panic came screaming up and out from his core.

Rains Fall knelt down in front of him and rested a heavy hand on his shoulder as Hosea rambled, voice low and hoarse and strained, “No, but I may as well be- I- I  _ raised that boy since he was fourteen, _ I taught him how to read and write, I taught him how to hunt, how to fish, I held him through attacks and nightmares and loss and loved him for twenty-two goddamn years and I-  _ I love him _ and I- and he- He’s got-  _ He’s-” _

Rains Fall pulled him into an embrace, and Hosea could do nothing but stare wild-eyed out at the night, trembling with terror.

He sucked in a choked breath, then continued, “I've lost my wife and my partner. I've already lost children, but Arthur, he- he was my  _ first. _ He’s my first child, he’s my  _ boy, _ he’s my s- I can’t lose any more, I can’t, I can't lose _ him, _ I can’t I can’t  _ I can’t-” _

“I am sorry,” Rains Fall said softly.

It struck Hosea, then, that he was being embraced by a Chief. A leader of an entire nation.

“I’m not-” he croaked. “You don’t… owe me any kindness, Chief Rains Fall.” He desperately fought to reign in his shaking, breathing, and tears. “Please don’t trouble yourself.”

“Do not think of me as a Chief in this moment,” Rains Fall replied, his voice heavy under an immense weight that Hosea could not possibly know. “Think of me as a grieving widow and father.”

A sob huffed out of Hosea’s lungs, the flood gate opening again after he desperately tried to cinch it shut. He lifted his arms to embrace Rains Fall in return, the only man he’d met who could possibly understand what he was going through.

Hosea heaved in a wheezing breath. “I wish I could just. Shoot it. Attack the plague in his lungs, kill it, or- o-or-” He closed his eyes and a fresh wave of hot tears streamed down his face before he rasped, “If I could take his place I would in a heartbeat. If I could bear this for him I would. If I believed in a higher power I’d pray that it swap to me, but I can’t, and by God I  _ hate  _ this  _ powerlessness.” _

Rains Fall was quiet for a long moment. “My first born had his head bashed in by a drunken soldier. Later, I was forced to watch as another slit my wife’s throat. I have known what it is to be powerless. To have an enemy you cannot fight.”

Hosea’s breath hitched in a soft gasp hearing the horrific crimes the man had endured. Carefully, he splayed a hand out over the other man’s back and pressed down, trying to communicate his condolences. “What do I do?” he whispered.

“You must not allow helplessness to become hopelessness, to make you forget the power you still maintain. You must summon your strength.  _ Endure.” _ Rains Fall leaned away and Hosea did the same, the two men still keeping a reassuring hand on the other’s shoulder, maintaining the ring of comforting empathy. “Your son needs you strong. You must be his hope, his shield against anger and despair. Do not fail him.”

Hosea could tell the man’s words were meant as much for himself as they were for him. Slowly, he nodded, that same zinging power that overcame him when he first saw Arthur give up coursing through him again. His tears and his shaking stopped, his breaths deepening, slow and easy.

“I won’t,” Hosea declared, his voice even and firm. Then, much softer, he added, “Thank you.”

Rains Fall’s expression eased. “It is the least I can do for a man who showed kindness to  _ my _ son. You are free to stay here as long as you need.”

Hosea pushed himself up to his feet, then held out a hand to help Rains Fall stand as well. “Thank you, Sir. If there’s any way I can help you and your people before we leave, please let me know.”

Rains Fall took the offered hand, rising to smile tiredly at him. “Such things can be saved for the morning. For now, go to the circle of shacks down that path; a woman named Singing Voice will help you take food and water to your family.”

Fifteen minutes later, Hosea entered through the tipi flap carrying in a tray with three bowls of vegetable stew and two canteens of water. He gently roused Arthur from his sleep against Charles’s chest and beamed at him, shining and genuine, carding a hand through his hair before holding up a bowl of stew to press into his hands. “Best get your strength up, son.”

Arthur and Charles both shared a look, stunned, as Hosea sat down and began to devour his own stew. When they still made no move, Hosea waved his spoon at them, his eyes crinkling, swallowing his mouthful. “Well?”

Charles’s expression softened as Arthur gave him a small, tentative smile.

The three men ate, hope rising and warming their chests with each bite.

\--

The next morning, Charles left with Captain Monroe to “correct” a diverted vaccine shipment, and Hosea rode out with Rains Fall so the man could show him a sacred tribal site, leaving Arthur and Eagle Flies to take a long walk around the reservation and talk. 

The two old men rode their way up into the mountains to gather herbs for making mixtures to ease both Arthur’s tuberculosis and Hosea’s asthma for their long road ahead. They spoke easily back and forth between each other, swapping stories of their lost children and partners - Rains Fall showing no ill reaction at all when Hosea referred to Dutch as such. Hosea also took special care to gently encourage Rains Fall to share the burdensome topics which plagued his mind as they both rode and picked herbs, side-by-side. He knew the Chieftain was a better man than he could ever hope to be, stronger than he could ever hope to be, but he still hoped all the same that talking to an old outlaw, who also led and fought and  _ lost  _ so utterly and completely, might ease some of the crushing weight that bowed the man’s spine.

Whatever efforts he hoped to accomplish were squashed when they saw a huge plume of smoke coming from the sacred site. Rains Fall screamed and urged his horse towards the flames, nearly falling off as he dismounted once he reached the holy ground, utterly pillaged and destroyed. Hosea saw the man  _ snap  _ as he fell to his knees.

It wasn’t long after he readily agreed to help search for the missing sacred artifacts, picking his way over broken bottles of Army rum, that he spied the Army camp down below, full of the drunken idiots still howling and partying. He called Rains Fall over and the man came up to his side, his face twisted in exhausted grief. Looking down at the reveling soldiers, he spoke of the old hatred carried by Colonel Favours that bred in his men, of broken promises and broken treaties, shameless acts of violence all in the name of oil, in the aim of provoking his tribe to throw themselves upon the Army’s spears, to abandon peace - “And now, they have taken our last hope.”

Hosea frowned over at Rains Fall, his mouth a severe line, his eyes soft. “I’ll get them back.”

Twenty minutes later he returned with the sacred items, his lungs wheezing and whistling and screeching as they tried to swell shut, his back and knees and ankles one long line of piercing agony, sweat dripping down his nose, the wound in his side reopened and oozing blood, but he’d done it.

“I’m sorry you had to go through this,” he wheezed, handing the chalupa and everything else to Rains Fall where he was on the ground, hope igniting in his eyes once more as his skin touched the manifestations of his culture.

After a moment, Rains Fall looked up at him and eased out a wary sigh. “Even sacred things… are only things. People - the  _ heart-” _ he tapped his chest twice “-matter more.” There was a beat of silence as he looked Hosea up and down. “Was anyone hurt?”

Hosea huffed a laugh as he doubled over on his knees, struggling to keep his lungs open. He coughed harshly for a minute, cradling his side, then managed, “Bastards were too drunk to hear my broken-accordion-sounding ass sneaking around with my joints clicking like a tap performance. Never even knew I was there.” He looked over his shoulder. “Woulda done my old party trick, but I ain’t got any booze and it averages me four hours to pull off.”

“It is best that you didn’t make yourself known,” Rains Fall assured him. “Thank you for not harming them. You have saved my people much suffering from retaliation, even if they’d seen who you were. We owe you much... and I am giving you very little.”

With that, Rains Fall took an owl feather trinket from the collection of sacred things and pressed it into Hosea’s hand, who straightened up to cradle it. He looked down at Rains Fall and frowned, his lungs finally settling in his chest. “I can’t accept this.”

“Please,” Rains Fall pressed, “give it to your son. May it protect him on your journey.”

Hosea’s throat threatened to close from the well of emotion caused by the gesture. “Thank you,” he said softly, reverently tucking it into his satchel and holding out his hand to help Rains Fall up to his feet.

Rains Fall didn’t let go of his hand when he stood, instead opting to meet Hosea’s eyes. “You are a good man, Mr. Matthews.”

Hosea’s expression softened even more as he squeezed Rains Fall’s hand, shaking it. “And you truly are a great Chief. Your people are in good hands.”

Both men smiled sadly at each other, not quite believing the other’s words, but willing to accept them.

\--

Hours later, Hosea, Arthur, and Charles were reunited again in their tipi, each done with their respective business helping the tribe, eating a lunch of more vegetable stew. Hosea had ground up and distilled the herbs into tonics a little before, the owl feather trinket safely nested in Arthur's satchel, and all they truly had left to do was ready their horses.

Arthur slowly set his stew bowl down, only half empty, and clenched his jaw.

Hosea slurped up the last of his broth, wiping his mouth on the back of his hand. “Something wrong, Arthur?”

Arthur looked between him and Charles with worried eyes. “I can’t stop thinkin’ about the others. Wonderin’ if they’re okay. Thinkin’ about how they all think we’re dead. Or  _ will.” _ Charles placed a warm hand on Arthur’s shoulder, rubbing it gently as Hosea hummed in agreement. “It’s eatin’ me up.”

Charles slowly shook his head. “It’s nothing short of a miracle that we all survived.”

Arthur snorted, a low, bitter sound. Hosea clenched his hand around the boy’s knee and fixed him with a warning Look.

After Arthur wilted under his stare, Hosea quietly said, “I hate the thought of them not knowing what happened, either, but there’s nothing else for it.”

Arthur started rocking himself back and forth slightly. “I want to go to them. If I’m gonna die, I’d rather be with them, in the end.”

Charles tensed. “Stop talking like you’ve already given up.”

Arthur bit his lip and glared at the ground. “I wish you two would.”

Charles let go of Arthur and leaned away from him, clenching his jaw as he turned his head to stare out the tipi flap. 

Hosea leaned towards the boy and gently, reverently cupped his jaw in his hand, tilting his head up to meet his gaze, pouring forth as much love as he could into the words, “If you won’t fight for yourself, son, then  _ please… _ Fight for me.”

Arthur stared into his face, searching, his nihilistic resolve cracking more and more with each passing second. He jolted when Charles’s hand settled over his, and the rest of his resolve fully shattered apart when he turned his head and caught sight of tears in the usually stoic man’s eyes.

With a harsh sigh, Arthur slammed his eyes shut and ducked his head, emitting a couple weak coughs. “Fine. Fine, I… For you both. I’ll… I’ll fight.” He slowly opened his eyes and sagged, exhausted. “But only if one of y’all goes and finds the others. Let them know what happened.” He slowly turned his head towards Charles, expression almost shy.

Charles took a moment to process what Arthur was implying, then slowly widened his eyes. “No.”

“Charles…” Arthur said softly, squeezing the man’s hand. “They need to  _ know.” _

Charles clenched his jaw, searching Arthur’s face as he squeezed his hand in return. “You’re not just trying to ‘save’ me? To get rid of me?”

Arthur sighed heavily, pulling Charles’s hand to rest over his heart. “It ain’t nothin’ like that, I promise. It’s just… If this was any of  _ them… _ I’d wanna know. And the thought of John thinkin’ we’re dead…” his voice broke, unable to finish the sentence.

The tears in Charles’s eyes swelled further, but didn’t fall. He looked over at Hosea, who was watching their interaction, expression carefully blank. “Hosea?”

Hosea blinked, then looked at Arthur. The desperation on the boy’s face made his expression finally ease into a soft, determined smile. He looked back at Charles. “I can take care of him. We’ll be fine, son.”

Charles frowned. “But… But when he fell, you weren’t able-”

Hosea ignored the sting of the words as Arthur squeezed the other man’s shoulder. “There’s no way in hell I’ll ever agree to any of this without knowing that someone’s gone out to give the others hope and let them know the truth of what happened. And would you really send Hosea out to trek a thousand miles through northern wilderness? Alone?” His attempt at a wan grin failed and fell as he clutched Charles’s hand in both of his. “He’d never make it.” Hosea nodded solemnly, confirming it, his jaw clenched. “Charles… please… you’re the only one who can do it. I need you to find and look out for my family.”

“But you’re my family,” Charles said quietly, a single tear breaking free to slip down his cheek.

Arthur leaned forward to press their foreheads together. “And you’re mine,” he said roughly. “So you have to know how important this is to me.”

Charles swallowed and let out an uneven breath. His voice was thick as he said, “I would have followed you to the  _ end.” _

Arthur’s eyes grew wet. “I know.”

Charles’s brown eyes met Arthur’s blue. He fisted his hand into Arthur’s shirt, over his heart, and took a deep breath. After a long moment - with a tone that carried clarity and calm, strength and truth, firmness and unimaginable tenderness - he declared, letting the words exist as they were:

“I love you.”

A tear slipped down Arthur’s cheek, and the man smiled, trembling. “I love you too.”

Hosea didn’t dare move for how sacred the moment was.

Finally, after a long stretch, Arthur had to lean away and break their contact to cough into his elbow. Charles rubbed his back firmly and waited until the spell passed and their eyes met again to say, “I’ll come back to you. I’ll find them and tell them and make sure they’re taken care of and then I’ll  _ come for you, _ I swear it.”

Arthur laughed weakly. “You’re too good a man for me, Charles.”

Charles fisted a slow, gentle hand into Arthur’s hair and maneuvered him so that he could press a kiss to Arthur’s forehead before fixing him with a glare. “By all accounts, the three of us should have died on that homestead, but we didn’t. That isn’t something we just throw away. We have an entire future to fight and  _ live  _ for, not die for. A chance to be remembered for something other than a heroic sacrifice after a life full of regret. I’m not going to squander this gift.” He looked back and forth between Arthur and Hosea, pinning them both in a burning gaze. “When I get to Denver… You  _ both  _ better be there.”

Hosea lifted his chin. “I will.” He’d fight a hell of a lot more than the slithering voice in his head for his family. He turned his gaze to Arthur, expectant.

Arthur looked… so, utterly, incredibly, pained. And  _ tired. _

But, after a long minute of silence, he reached out to clasp both Charles’s and Hosea’s hands, meeting their eyes. “I’ll do everything I can,” he croaked, voice as strong as he could make it.

Both Hosea and Charles crushed him between themselves in a hug once more, and all three clutched at each other, tears gathering under their eyelashes, under the shadow of a terrifying future full of unknowns and uncertainties, death still nipping at all of their heels, but against it all, one thing was certain.

They loved each other.

And that was enough.

\--

Both Arthur and Hosea gave Charles a crushing hug when they all stood beside their horses, ready to set out on their own respective, daunting journeys to achieve nigh impossible goals. After they each swung up onto Taima, Killer, and The Count, they rode out together to the road in strained, heavy silence. Once they reached the fork, where Charles had to turn north, and Arthur and Hosea had to turn south, they pulled their horses to a stop, exchanged one last, long look - a part of themselves acknowledging that, no matter how optimistic they were trying to be, it very well could be their last - and with a final exchange of  _ I love yous, _ they turned their horses in their respective directions and cantered away, their eyes stinging.

It was an hour later before Hosea tried to speak again, The Count and Killer both maintaining a slow, languid lope. Pushing them hard would just be equally hard on their riders, and Arthur’s body needed all the rest and care it could get. A look at the boy’s face - at the dark shadow that had settled over his eyes again, his expression shuttering and sinking more and more as time continued to pass - proved that his mind needed all the help it could get, too.

“So,” Hosea started hesitantly. “We’re getting close to where we’ll need to pick a direction. I was thinking we go to Blackwater.”

No response.

Hosea slowed The Count to ride beside Arthur, where he patted Arthur’s shoulder. “That sound good to you, son?”

Arthur didn’t even look at him.

Hosea bit his lip and racked his brain, desperately trying to find a way to pull the boy out of his head. Slowly, he smirked. “...Don’t you want to hear my ideas for disguises?”

Arthur looked away and coughed into his shoulder.

“Okay, I’ll give you hints, and you try to guess!” Hosea resituated himself in the saddle. “The fall of 1884.”

Still nothing.

“We were in Louisville, Kentucky.”

No reaction.

“...We all ran into a Bloomingdale’s warehouse to hide from the law.”

Arthur slowly, oh so slowly, turned his head to look at him with wide, horrified eyes.  _ “No,” _ he pleaded. Hosea grinned, wicked, and Arthur let out a loud, almost whining groan as he shook his head. “Aw _ c’mon, _ I’m still haunted by the image of Dutch in garters! And I ain’t wearin’ no dress! You fellers may have been able to pull that off, but I’d make such an ugly woman I’d just draw  _ more  _ attention, not less!”

“First off,” Hosea chuckled, “the question of how ugly a woman you’d make is entirely conjecture. And secondly, while I think there’s no other way I can disguise myself that could slip by Pinkerton headquarters - outside of a clown, at least, which is still an option if you want to go by Bobo - you’ve grown out your beard and…” his humor tapered off, twisting into pained concern. “...lost quite a bit of weight,” he finished quietly, eyeing the way the man’s shirt and jacket, which used to fit, now hung limply off his thin frame. He sighed, forcing himself to perk up again. “If you  _ really  _ don’t want me to be your fairy godmother and gussy you up, then with some cleaning up, you can be my spindly rich gentleman counterpart like you insisted that first time.”

“Spindly,” Arthur muttered. After a moment, he groaned in disgust. “We ain’t playin’ husband and wife like me an’ Dutch had to, right?”

Hosea snorted, remembering Dutch and Arthur’s utterly miserable faces, red in the ears, as he kept hissing at them to walk arm in arm past the law. It was hilarious. “No, I won’t do that to you again. You can just be my son.”

Arthur heaved out a sigh of relief, then started coughing again, rushing to catch it in his sleeve. It got worse and worse with each cough, those old tortured, harsh, sharp noises screeching up out of his lungs again, blood splattering onto his jacket, and they were forced to urgently turn off the trail and stop so Arthur could dismount before he fell, clutching his saddle-horn to steady himself instead as Hosea massaged his shoulders, waiting for the episode to pass. When it finally did, Arthur nearly collapsed with exhaustion, Hosea moving quickly to catch him and prop him up against Killer’s side, who was sniffing at him warily. Every rattling breath the boy dragged in sounded like agony. 

“Here,” Hosea murmured, handing the boy the tonic he’d made with the herbs Rains Fall gathered. “This should help with the pain and decrease the inflammation in there.” Arthur downed it immediately and swallowed, making a face at the taste. Hosea continued holding him, rubbing at his shoulders, and both of them relaxed when the rattles got quieter and quieter after a few minutes, his breaths coming easier, his strength returning. “Atta’boy,” he said softly.

Arthur blinked, exhausted, and reached a hand up to clasp Hosea’s where it rested on his shoulder. “Thank you.”

Hosea nearly scoffed. “Of course,” he said softly, ruffling his hair. “You need help back up in the saddle?”

Arthur hesitated for a long moment. “Maybe just… be here to catch me if I fall?”

Hosea’s eyes crinkled. “Always.”

Arthur warily grabbed the reins and pulled the side facing him gently taut so Killer’s eye was on him, grabbed the back of the saddle with his other hand, lifted his foot up into the stirrup with great effort, and then with one giant heave, hauled himself back up and into the saddle, breathing heavily and wincing in pain, but he did it. Hosea hovered just long enough to ensure he was steady before affectionately clapping him on the hip and moving to mount up on The Count.

“So… Blackwater, huh?” Arthur prompted breathlessly. A reluctant smile played on his lips when Hosea looked back at him. “Guess it’s  _ our  _ turn to do something batshit stupid in that town.”

Hosea spurred The Count gently forwards with a low chuckle, Arthur spurring Killer to match the Arabian’s pace. “They’ll have no idea what hit them.”

They continued like that for the rest of the day, riding in easy silence westward beside each other, enjoying the wind in their face and the sun on their skin, staring out at the beautiful nature that surrounded them, the trees gently waving at them as they rode by, the dragonflies and butterflies that flew along the grass, the rabbits that scampered across the trail. When the sun got low in the sky, Hosea suggested they find a secure spot to make camp and go hunting together. A couple hours later, they both carried a muscly buck back to where they left the horses, where Hosea skinned and dressed it while Arthur made camp. When the stars faded through the soft blanket of lilac that made up the sky and the moon rose to shine down at them, it was to them eating and laughing together, reminiscing about all the hunting stories they’d made together - up to and including the legendary brute of a bear which nearly killed Hosea, had it not been for Arthur.

The next morning, after they’d shared mugs of coffee together and cleaned their guns, then spoiled the horses with wild carrots, a rub down, and lots of pats, they’d only been riding for a few minutes before they came across an old man hunched over off to the side of the road dressed in rags, holding a walking stick in one hand and a tin cup in the other, calling “Seek redemption, all! It’s never too late!”

Arthur perked up and slowed Killer down to a halt, still a ways away from the man, Hosea stopping beside him. “Hey, I know this feller! We can spare a dollar for him, can’t we?”

Hosea frowned and side-eyed his satchel, which held all the money to their names, Monroe’s entire month’s salary: $40. “What we have already isn’t enough. It could get us some new clothes, or it could buy us passage, but not both.”

Arthur shrugged. “Can’t we just steal more?”

Hosea fixed him with a good-natured Look. “Oh, you think after all my talk about us stopping crime, you and I should just go rob a bank?”

Arthur hesitated for a long moment. “...There’s the Blackwater money.”

Hosea’s eyes bulged and he wheezed out a laugh at the thought of the $150,000, shaking his head. “Well we wouldn’t exactly be penniless then, would we?”

Arthur huffed, quiet, then met his eye. “...I could be. They’d let me in if I showed up alone, and you could take the rest. Live comfortable. Then you wouldn’t have to work.”

Hosea stared at the boy for a long minute before his expression finally softened with a gentle sigh. “Your concern for me is very cute, son, but…”

“I wanna know you’re taken care of,” Arthur said quietly.

Hosea reached over and massaged the nape of the boy’s neck. “Ain’t nothing or no one’s gotta  _ take care _ of me. I’ll find a way for us to get what we need with the money we have, and selling that pelt will help. I don’t want to risk us getting caught with a fortune and them putting two and two together, or forbid, us blowing our cover digging it up in the middle of town. That’s a risk I’m not willing to take. You’re too important.”

Arthur clenched his jaw and tensed, but nodded, looking away from him with a long sigh. “This conversation ain’t done,” he said quietly, digging around in his pockets for any change he missed giving to John. He walked Killer up closer to the old man, then carefully dismounted.

“Help a blind man?” the old man prompted. 

Arthur clinked his change into the man’s cup. “It’s only a few pennies. I’m sorry, it’s all I can spare.”

“Thank you, Sir. A little from those with less than nothing is worth more than a fortune from those who have everything.” The old man paused, then, focusing on Arthur, studying him with blind, unseeing eyes. “Cherish the time you have with your father, for evil shall find you both in seven moons.”

Arthur leaned back slightly. “...Uh, okay.” He laughed uneasily, then added, “You, uh, take care now.”

Arthur turned back and mounted up on Killer, who he spurred to join Hosea urging The Count into another lazy lope. He wheezed a laugh. “Ain’t much of a fortune teller, considerin’ my father’s dead, but he’s a nice enough feller.”

Hosea side-eyed him fondly. “You’re a good man.”

Arthur made a dismissive noise, then coughed. After the bout passed, they continued at a leisurely walk as he struggled to remain upright. Hosea rode slightly behind him, frowning severely. His eyes slowly drifted back and forth between his frail form and the handles of Dutch’s Schofields where they were tucked in their holsters, his stomach twisting in on itself.

He knew, as much as he could ever know anything, that he’d do anything -  _ anything  _ \- for that boy.

Three hours later, they stopped for a brief rest and a lazy lunch, eating the rest of their deer meat. They tossed around the idea of aliases, agreeing that they’d better work them out now rather than later. After fifteen minutes of fruitless brainstorming, they continued batting around ideas as they rode, carding through the fake names that arose in their minds with great care. A person could linger on Earth with tuberculosis for a decade. Whatever names they went by could be their new identities for years.

“Should we go as brothers, uncle and nephew, or father and son?” Hosea prompted once they finally settled on the surname  _ Jones  _ \- Beatrice Morgan’s maiden name.

Arthur chewed on the question for a minute. “Folk always show the most pity on a father and son.”

Hosea hummed in contentment. “I’m glad. That dynamic’s always my favorite to play.”

Arthur slowly tilted his head. “...What do you think my name should be? I never was good at this makin’ stuff up… stuff.”

Hosea smiled as he thought. Arthur never did like change, let alone rapid and massive change, and the name Arthur was common enough. Keeping his name would be a good anchor for the boy. “How about you stay with Arthur?” he asked softly. “Arthur Jones.”

Arthur was silent for a long moment, then huffed a quiet, wet laugh, sniffling. “I think I like that.” He threw Hosea an appreciative smile, which Hosea warmly returned.

“...Would you like to name  _ me?” _ Hosea suggested, quirking an eyebrow. 

Arthur huffed, then rubbed the back of his neck as they rode, squinting analytically up at the sky. They shared an easy peace as the countryside rolled by, until eventually, Arthur replied, “Mordechai.”

Hosea snorted.  _ “Mordechai?” _

Arthur wilted slightly. “Do you not like it?”

It took everything Hosea had not to outright scoff at how painfully earnest the boy could be. Smiling, he shook his head. “No, no, I love it, it’s just -  _ strong _ and  _ dramatic! _ Mordechai Jones! I sound like I popped right out of one of my crime novels. ...What made you think of Mordechai?”

“Well,” Arthur said gently, “I know you’re Jewish, and since we’re goin’ to a place set up by Jewish folk, I thought, why not a Jewish name? And Hosea’s a Jewish name, ain’t it?”

“Hebrew,” Hosea corrected automatically. “Hebrew names.”

Arthur nodded his thanks. “Hebrew. Y’know, familiarity. S’nice.”

Hosea’s eyes crinkled as he beamed a soft grin at the man. “I, for one, am honored that you obviously gave this as much thought as you did Boadicea. And you think you’re bad at ‘coming up with stuff,’  _ pah. _ Or should I say oy?”

For once, Hosea reckoned the blush on Arthur’s face wasn’t from his fever.

The sun was nearing the horizon when they reached Wallace Station, with a cold, sharp wind howling through the trees to warn of an approaching storm. Hosea guided Arthur into the general store to buy their disguises, taking great amusement in flipping the store catalogue to the women’s section and nudging Arthur to pick out an outfit for his “mother” with a wink. Arthur sighed and huffed and groaned and rolled his eyes at every page, first pointing to the cheapest and plainest outfit in the whole lineup: a simple blouse and long skirt. Hosea gave him a rueful grin and told him he needed to be a bit more dramatic. Arthur sucked his cheek in and grumbled, eventually pointing at a fairly priced sunshine-yellow day dress with periwinkle ribbons. It even came with a cute little hat with white lace that hung down over the face.

“Well isn’t that  _ precious,” _ Hosea cooed, pinching Arthur’s cheek to elicit another eye roll. “Your mother will love it. Now, you go ahead and pick some things out for yourself while I finish the shopping. Remember - your mother wants them  _ snug  _ and  _ dapper.” _

Arthur waved him off with a single, tiny cough into his elbow. With Arthur thoroughly occupied with the catalogue - and thoroughly occupying the clerk - Hosea wasted no time picking out makeup and shaving supplies between discreetly shoving cans of food into his trenchcoat’s many pockets. By the time they finished paying and strode out the door with their parcels and stolen goods, they had twenty-five cents to their name. 

Hosea threw a candy bar at Arthur once they rode out of sight, keeping a wary eye on the nearly black, snarling clouds that were rolling in, bringing with them bitter cold moisture. “We should get a hotel room in Strawberry for the night and head for Blackwater tomorrow when this blows over.”

Arthur caught the chocolate bar and blinked at it. “We didn’t pay for this.”

“Never you mind that.”

Arthur smirked. “What happened to no more crime?”

Hosea heaved an over-the-top sigh. “We paid for the most expensive things, didn’t we? That has to count for something. He won’t miss a can or twelve of food he’s sellin’ for only six cents each.”

Arthur’s mouth was already full of chocolate. “I feel like you’re a hypocrite.”

“Shut up.”

Then, in a tone far, far more serious, Arthur swallowed and said, “Hosea… How’re we gettin’ to Denver with no money?”

Hosea frowned at the shadows in the forest. “...Let me worry about that. Let’s just get you fed, bathed, and rested.”

They didn’t speak again after that, Arthur’s expression shuttering once more, the dark shadow seeping into his eyes. Hosea’s eyes once again slid down to Dutch’s Schofields.

Once they got to Strawberry, they quickly sold their deer pelt to the butcher for $5 thanks to Hosea hamming it up, and hurried their way to the Strawberry hotel. They paid for a shared room and two baths, and without any further ado, Hosea shooed Arthur off to the bath - reluctantly surrendering the Schofields and his knife to the boy - before carrying their saddle-bags and parcels up to their room. He immediately turned around and slipped out, walking down the stairs and out the front door of the hotel. 

It took him only about an hour to gather the information he wanted by eavesdropping around town; Strawberry was still reeling and recovering from the massacre exacted on it by Micah Bell and a “mysterious man” who joined him - all of it, apparently, in the name of the Van der Linde gang. The scandal had attracted all sorts of romantics to the town - star-eyed novelists, historians from the big cities, and one particularly wealthy collector named George Spinner, who was obsessed with accumulating relics of “America’s Greatest Gangs,” and who was apparently renting a house across town.

When Hosea returned to the hotel, he had no sooner shut the door than a torrential downpour started up outside, slamming down on the roof as the sun slipped fully below the horizon, suffocating the outside in inky blackness. He walked into the bath to take his own, sinking down into the hot bubbly water to soothe his stiff and screaming joints, breathing in the steam through his whistling lungs. He closed his eyes and lolled his head back, wincing, trying with all his might to steel and reinforce his nerves - and his heart - for what he planned to do. 

Thunder rumbled.

After he redressed and entered their bedroom, he joined Arthur in the lounge chairs to share a somber meal of corned beef, beans, peaches, oatcakes, and candy, the silence neither easy nor uneasy. After Hosea threw away their trash, he urged Arthur into the bed with a flurry of gentle touches and warm smiles and soft words. The man slipped under the covers, reluctant, sending him an uneasy look before rolling onto his side and going limp with exhaustion. Hosea sat himself down in a chair beside the bed, turning the fire of the lantern up on their bedside table as he cracked open a book from one of the hotel shelves and began to read.

Forty minutes later, Arthur’s strained breaths and tensed shoulders finally relaxed into the telltale signs of sleep. Hosea slipped his eyes over to Arthur’s sleeping form and silently closed his book, setting it aside as he rose to his feet. He snuck over to where Dutch’s Schofields were laying on Arthur’s nightstand, picking them up again and tucking them into his holsters, before stepping light-footed to the coat-rack to shrug on the trenchcoat. With one last long, lingering, loving look at Arthur, he slipped quietly out their bedroom door.

The fat, sharp impacts of the icy cold rain hit Hosea’s body like a train, and he clenched his teeth against his own shivering as he hurried through the streets. It didn’t take him long to find the house he’d cased earlier, the lights in its windows still on for the night. He hurried onto the porch and shook the water out of his hair, smoothing the lapels on his coat and clearing his throat, doing his best to put himself together. He took a deep breath, drew himself up to his full height, rolled his shoulders back, scowled, and pounded his fist on the man’s door.

There was a clatter, and then a pause. Slow, heavy footsteps approached the door, before it eased open a crack. A blue eye peered out at him, belonging to a finely dressed man with painstakingly groomed blonde hair with a handlebar moustache. Everything about him screamed Old Money. “Can I help you?”

Hosea stared him down. “Are you George Spinner? The collector?”

The man looked him up and down, shifting uneasily. “And if I am?”

Hosea slowly drew back his trenchcoat to reveal his holsters. With careful, projecting hands, he gripped the handles of Dutch’s Schofields and drew them out of their holsters, rotating them to hold them by the barrels, lifting them up so the man could inspect their profiles. The warm lantern light from inside illuminated their gorgeous custom craftsmanship, making their intricate gold engravings nearly glow, the initials  _ VDL _ glinting in the light. Spinner’s eyes widened to the size of saucers, his pupils blowing wide.

“How much would you give me for the twin Schofields of Dutch van der Linde?”

\--

Hosea shuffled his way back into their room, shutting and locking the door behind him, coughing fiercely as his lungs fought against themselves, swelling shut. He dug out the tonic he’d made with the help of Rains Fall and unscrewed its cap, wafting it under his nose like smelling salts, before downing it. He gulped and gasped, coughing again as he dripped a large puddle of water onto the floor, hoping with all his might that the rain disguised the profuse tear-stains on his cheeks.

When his lungs finally opened after a minute, he turned around and locked eyes with Arthur where the man was sitting up on the bed, waiting for him with crossed arms and a thunderous glare.

“What did you do?”

Hosea pushed his hair back and wiped the water out of his face, slinging his satchel and its precious cargo off of his shoulders before tossing it to Arthur. “I got us a thousand dollars.”

Arthur caught the satchel and scowled down at it before looking back up to Hosea. “By doing  _ what?” _

Hosea slowly shrugged off his trenchcoat and hung it on the coat-rack. As he pulled off his boots, he saw Arthur looking him over, his eyes eventually snagging and then locking onto his empty holsters.

“...Where’s Dutch’s guns?” Arthur asked, voice dangerously quiet.

“I sold them,” Hosea said easily. 

Hosea got his socks and his vest off, also hanging up to dry, before turning to fully face Arthur. His heart ached seeing that Arthur’s expression had shifted from disappointment to something much more akin to horror. Hosea sighed softly as he walked over to sit next to the man on the bed, watching him with old, tired eyes. Slowly, Arthur’s gaze sank down to the satchel, and he opened it to pull out the thick stack of cash. His hand trembled before he dropped the money like it burned him.

“Does he not even matter to you anymore?” he whispered.

Hosea’s expression crumpled. “Arthur, you know that’s not true.”

Arthur turned his head to look at him, eyes full of tears, his bottom lip trembling. “He… He saved both our lives countless times with those guns. Even after he d-... After he sacrificed himself, to save  _ you, _ using  _ those guns, _ they  _ still  _ saved our lives in  _ your  _ hands. They were- He sank so much work and thought and money into those guns. He  _ loved  _ those guns.”

Hosea tucked a lock of Arthur’s hair behind his ear. “Not nearly as much as he loved  _ you.”  _ Arthur heaved out a harsh, trembling breath, falling limp against Hosea’s side to rest his head on his shoulder. Hosea wrapped his arm around Arthur’s waist and rested his head over his as the younger man cried. “And you know he’d give those guns up in a second if it meant saving you.”

“But we could have gotten money countless other ways- We- We could’ve- The Blackwater m-”

“We’re getting  _ out  _ of this life, not back in,” Hosea said gently. “And we don’t have the time to earn this money by any other honest way.”

Arthur bit his lip and slowly closed his eyes, tears shaking loose. “But they’re  _ him.” _

“Even sacred things… are only things,” Hosea whispered, mirroring Rains Fall’s words. “People matter far more. The  _ heart.” _ He poked Arthur’s chest. “Those guns didn’t save us all those times.  _ Dutch  _ did. And after, the  _ memory  _ of him did. I don’t need anything to remind me of Dutch, to feel him, because I carry him in my heart. I’m the man I am today because of him. And you?” Hosea squeezed him tighter. “All of his best qualities live on in you. He lives on in both of us.”

Arthur let out a long, slow exhale, and wiped away the tears from his face. “Y’know…” he started roughly, clearing his throat. “When we needed to flee the homestead… I only grabbed two things from my wagon.” He carefully shrugged his way out of Hosea’s arm to turn and grab his own satchel, dragging it into his lap and opening it. “My picture of my Ma,” he said softly, taking out the photo of Beatrice Morgan and setting it reverently aside, “and… Us.”

The air was stolen out of Hosea’s lungs at the sight of his, Arthur’s, and Dutch’s portrait that they all took together, the photo held tenderly in Arthur’s hand. Both of their eyes locked onto Dutch’s twenty-four-year-old face, gazing serenely into the camera, expression lit with a quiet pride, looking at home and at peace from his place standing between Hosea and Arthur, his hand on Arthur’s shoulder.  _ Happy. _

“Oh,” Hosea said softly, tears shimmering in his eyes, voice breaking. “Look at him.”

Arthur shakily smiled, leaning against Hosea’s side once more. There was a long stretch of silence before he ventured, “We may have our memories of him, but… I’m still… I’m still glad I have this.”

Hosea gently knocked their heads together. “I’m glad you have this, too,” he confessed, a quiet whisper.

The two men stared at the photo for a long while, feeling three presences in the room, before turning in for bed.

\--

The next morning was a numb haze of preparation.

Both men hastily prepared to don their disguises, Hosea shaving and waxing his face as Arthur rubbed pomade through his hair and beard oil into his beard. The act of getting into their respective clothes was another feat altogether - Arthur pulled on his clean work boots, cloth pinstriped pants, high-neck button-up, and floral vest in about five minutes, all of them accentuating how thin he was, all while Hosea was still wrestling on layers of underwear.

“Can you help me with this  _ fucking corset?” _ he wheezed. Arthur snorted and braced his knee against Hosea’s lower back before hauling on the ties, cinching Hosea into it with a hissed  _ “Shit.” _

“You best watch your language if you wanna come across as a Lady,” Arthur teased.

Hosea finally shrugged on and buttoned up his blouse and pulled on the yellow skirt, shrugging on the yellow overcoat with its poofed-out shoulders, fastening its clasp around his now-hourglass waist. “How does anyone expect women to be nice in these things? Fuck!”

When they were finally all ready, standing next to each other in front of the room’s mirror, Hosea’s face painted elegantly and Arthur’s with a touch of powder to help his pallor, Arthur roughly mused, “We look like a couple of idiots.”

“Simple idiots,” Hosea added.  _ “Plain _ idiots. Perfectly middle-class idiots that no one should pay any mind to. Ergo,  _ perfect.”  _ And with that, he donned his flowery lace hat, grabbed their saddle-bags, and flounced out the door.

After spoiling The Count and Killer with freshly-bought turnips and more ear scratches, they mounted up and rode south to Blackwater, their hearts pounding harder and harder with each mile. By the time they crested that last hill, spotting the town sprawled out below them, Arthur was riding with his free hand not-so-subtely close to his holster, hovering protectively within feet of Hosea at all times, both of them acutely aware that Hosea had no way to defend himself, his shotgun held in Arthur’s saddle. Hosea, for his part, flexed his performance skills to look and act starry-eyed and oblivious, cheerily smiling and waving at passerby, a poor innocent woman with her overprotective son. The Pinkertons on every street corner paid them no mind, and if any of their eyes lingered on Arthur too long, Hosea simply called out in his dainty alto, “Thank you for your service!” to get them to roll their eyes or tip their hats.

They made it to the railway station without incident, and Arthur accompanied Hosea up to the ticket booth with his hands in his pockets, keeping his head down in the way he always did when he was casing their surroundings. Hosea sashayed up to the ticket vendor and inquired about the cost of two tickets and shipping two horses to Denver, Colorado. The total came up to be $80. Hosea blinked in surprise at the cost before smiling cheerily at the ticket vendor, reaching into his satchel to pull out a hundred dollar bill, daintily accepting the $20 in change, their two tickets, and two livestock registration forms. Arthur wandered off as he filled out the paperwork, and by the time he was finally done filling out The Count and Killer’s information, he turned around to see Arthur waving at a Latina nun from a departing train, who was lovingly waving a handkerchief at him with crinkled eyes.

“A friend of yours, darling?” he chuckled, taking Arthur’s arm as he came up to the man’s side.

Arthur smiled softly after the train. “You know what…? Yeah,” he mused. “She’s pretty great.”

They spent the three hours waiting for their train in uneasy silence, sitting on the benches and jiggling their feet, the only sound between them being Hosea’s dry wheezing and Arthur’s wet rattle. Finally,  _ finally, _ their train pulled into the station after no less than twelve Pinkertons passed through the station with analyzing eyes. They both hurried to load The Count and Killer into the horse car alongside a few other folk, fighting to get the horses to calm down enough to step across the barrier - Killer because he was too afraid, The Count because he was too pissy - but they managed to bribe them with sugar cubes just in time. With a mad dash back to the passenger cars, Arthur hopped on the departing train and held his hand out for Hosea to grab, yanking him up and on board right before he would have fallen off the platform.

“You haven’t lost your touch  _ yet, _ sweetheart,” Hosea wheezed, poking him in the side as they stumbled their way towards the passenger seats.

“And if you could pull that off in heels, you haven’t lost yours yet either, old lady!” Arthur snickered. 

When they finally sat down in their seat after showing their tickets to the ticketmaster, Arthur next to the window and Hosea by the aisle, both of them smiling, Hosea let himself tentatively hope that everything would be okay.

With each passing hour, however, as the countryside rolled by the window, as they were carried further and further westward - away from the abandoned grounds of Horseshoe Overlook, Clemen’s Point, Shady Belle, and the smoking ruins of the homestead; away from the graves of Jenny, Davey, Mac, Sean, Kieran, and Dutch; away from Blackwater and all the sharp and bitter memories it represented - Arthur’s good mood faded more and more, his light fading with the sun as it crawled its way down towards the horizon.

He had an attack some time in the afternoon, his lungs screeching and shuddering with pain as he coughed and choked on more white phlegm, frantically pressing Hosea’s handkerchief over his mouth as the other passengers stared and murmured, save only for a couple who were similarly stricken by coughs. Hosea held him through it and rubbed his back, whispering quiet reassurances, and when Arthur finally emerged out the other side of it, pale, sweating, and shivering with exhaustion, that old dark shadow began seeping back into his eyes. Hosea spent the rest of the day desperately trying to keep him out of that dark place in his head, trying small talk or funny stories, but fell dead silent after Arthur eventually rasped, “Please stop, ‘Sea,” staring dead-eyed out the window.

Neither one of them talked or smiled after that.

When night fell and the train got dark, still trundling its way westward under the moon and the stars, Arthur eventually slouched more and more until he finally rested his head on Hosea’s shoulder and fell into an unfit sleep, his expression pained and pinched. Hosea wrapped a careful arm around his shoulders and sighed, turning his head to stare out the window at the night as every other overnight passenger got comfortable and still, their breaths deepening. An hour later, Hosea was the only one awake.

His gaze slowly sank down to Arthur.

_ All your fault. _

Hosea tucked his nose into Arthur’s hair as the itch slithered its way back under his skin, the voice returning like an old, unwelcome friend.

_ You should have noticed it sooner. If you did, you could have saved him. Now he’s going to die. He’s going to die, slowly, in agony, and it’s all your fault. You pushed him too hard. Asked for too much. You exposed him to this. You’ve killed him. Stupid. Worthless. Murderer. _

Hosea clenched his jaw, glaring out the window as he held Arthur closer, grabbing the voice by the throat and shoving it away.

Rains Fall’s voice came to him.  _ Your son needs you strong. You must be his hope, his shield against anger and despair. Do not fail him. _

Because truly, how could he ever ask Arthur to fight for himself if  _ he _ wasn’t willing to do the same? What kind of man would he be if he let himself get lost in all the  _ would have, could have, should haves _ of the past rather than doing everything in his power to keep the boy safe and cared for in the  _ present? _

...What kind of man  _ was  _ he?

The memory of his conversation with Javier drifted back to the front of his mind. Of when he said he didn’t know who he was without Bessie and Dutch. He furrowed his brow and frowned as he gently, warily prodded at the raw scars of them in mind, in his heart. If his worth was limited only to them, then… what did they even see in him?

He prodded again, insistent, no longer running away from their memory, and the wounds split open like a burst dam - at first bathing him in a sharp icy wave of  _ loss  _ but then in something… else.

For what kind of man would make a woman like  _ Bessie  _ fall in love with him? Could take a woman so sacred, so incredible, and make her relax at the sight of him, beaming like the sun? Could inspire her to trust herself, her body to him, shyly shedding her clothes and trembling under his eyes before shedding tears of joy as he kissed and worshipped every part of her? Could lay with the woman in lazy evenings in front of their fireplace, naked and at home in each other’s arms, and have her say into the hollow of his throat words which made him shiver like no ‘I love you’ ever did:  _ “You make me feel safe.” _

What kind of man could make  _ Dutch van der Linde _ look to  _ him  _ for direction, for guidance? To look at him with wide, earnest eyes and ask in a voice small and wavering,  _ How? _ or  _ Why? _ or even, impossibly, terrifyingly,  _ What do I do? _ What kind of man would he trust himself to to witness him cry, to witness him doubt, to take himself down from his godly pedestal and become a hurt and fearful man? What kind of man would a man so obsessed with control lay under,  _ around, _ head thrown back and panting with his spine a beautiful arch, allowing his hands to be pinned above his head, look in the eye, brown on hazel, and say  _ “You’re the only one I’d ever do this with.” _

A whole flood of voices slammed into him then, coursing through his veins.

_ You been like a father to me. You help me so much… Not just with the reading, but… with the living. _

_ Those two keep me going. And so do you. _

_ You’re like the Daddy I never had. _

_ Everyone in this gang loves you and wants you around as long as we can. _

_ You’re a good man without Dutch, Hosea. Have been the whole time I’ve known you without Bessie, too. ...I hope you see that. _

_ You’ll take care of ‘em. You’ll see us through this. You’re the best man for it. _

_ I saw that you and Dutch were respected not out of fear but by your kindness. _

_ You are a good man, Hosea Matthews. Of the best sort. _

_ You were there when it counted. And you’re here now. That’s all that matters to me. _

_ If it was him or you, I… I’d always choose you. _

Hosea looked back down at Arthur and huffed to himself, a slow smile spreading across his face as his eyes crinkled. Whatever crimes and wrongs of the past he’d be damned for didn’t matter. Any actions he took that could have put Arthur in this situation didn’t matter. There was nothing he could do to change the past, but he  _ could  _ change the future. In whatever ways he failed Arthur, in whatever ways he wasn’t there when the man needed him, he’d be here for the man  _ now. _ He’d do right by him  _ now. _

He pressed a kiss to Arthur’s hair, rested his head atop his, and fell into a deep sleep.

When they both awoke, it was to the loud blaring wail of the train whistle, and the two men both squinted at the early morning sunlight. They blinked their eyes into focus, then saw the sprawling cityscape of Denver, Colorado in the distance, illuminated and warmed in reds and oranges and yellows, backlit by the sun and crowned with majestic mountains in the background.

“There she is,” one of the cough-stricken couple breathed, standing to peer out their window as all the other passengers leaned or stood on tip-toe to look at the city.

“The Miracle Cure.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> With Chapter V now at a close, Chapter VI will bring with it a slew of... pretty ambitious changes. Chief of which is a point-of-view change from Hosea to Arthur. Hosea has fully completed his arc, and now it's time for Arthur to receive the same intense amount of narrative care. Additionally, Chapter VI is going to be a lot smaller and intimate in scope - I'll no longer be juggling 20+ characters - and will have a much more _Road to Perdition_ or _The Last of Us_ vibe. It's also going to be a lot more... abstract rather than action-packed, full of flashbacks and reflections as I and Arthur both wrestle with questions over family, fatherhood, masculinity, morality, and redemption. And, hopefully, _**absolutely absurd amounts of fluff.**_
> 
> Chapter V has been a WILD RIDE, and means so incredibly much to me, so thank you to all of you who've made it this far, and for sharing so many incredibly sweet and even personal comments. I treasure them all. Please remember to take care of yourselves, stay hydrated, get some rest, and remember your strength ♥
> 
> And with that, and because I'm a Big Sap, I'd like to end this with [a song I'd like to dedicate to our very own Arthur Morgan](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=LjF9IqvXDjY), and with which I hope to set the tone for Chapter VI ♥
> 
>  **1\. Dutch van der Linde's Last Stand**  
>  **2\. Escape from Saint Denis**  
>  **3\. Escape from Lemoyne**  
>  **4\. The Letter**  
>  **5\. Reunions**  
>  **6\. Unfinished Business**  
>  **7\. I Know You**  
>  **8\. Dreams, Omens, and Other Harbingers**  
>  **9\. For Whom the Bell Tolls**  
>  **10\. My First Boy**  
>  11\. National Jewish Health


	11. National Jewish Health

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warning** for characters being **refused service** due to illness, **descriptions of a human corpse,** internalized **ableism, suicidal ideation,** and intense, graphic depictions of **physical/psychological child abuse.**
> 
> I'd like to start by giving a very warm and loving shoutout to my dear friend [Toakenshire](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Toakenshire/pseuds/Toakenshire) and her work [Blessed Are the Hearts that Bend (They Shall Not Be Broken)](https://archiveofourown.org/works/24967231/chapters/60440293). If you like this fic, Hosea and Arthur's father/son relationship, and/or would like a fix-it fic where everyone lives that doesn't involve Dutch Committing Die, then you will adore her work. Please go read it and support her!!
> 
> The next thing I'd like to talk about is my decision to have Chapter VI be... in Denver, Colorado, and to make National Jewish Health Sanatorium a huge plot point. This all started in my first initial research while I was outlining this fic, trying to figure out a way I could help Arthur. That was when I stumbled upon the story of the very real, very historical, and _very delightful_ [National Jewish Health Sanatorium](https://www.nationaljewish.org/about/history/clinical), which really was set up by the Jewish community of Denver with the motto "None who enter shall pay - none who can pay shall enter." They went on to lead the charge for developing more efficient, humane treatments for tuberculosis as well as for finding a cure! The Sanatorium is now gone, but National Jewish Health continues today as a hospital that specializes in respiration! The fact that they opened in _1899_ was _too_ on the nose for me to not go "fuck it" and set the entire last act in Denver, Colorado, especially since the entire city itself was described as a "miracle cure" for TB because of its air, and folk with tuberculosis _**flooded**_ into it from all across the country. It struck me as the perfect place for Arthur to recover - and I figured it was fair game, since the game itself mentions real places like California, Montana, and New York as existing in canon. Also, I get to tip my hat and salute the good work that real folk did with National Jewish Health.
> 
> Now... with that being said... for the sake of me not spending all of my time trawling through digital historical records and trying to piece together Exactly what Denver was like in 1899 from Denver's public libraries (which I... have done...) I have decided that, instead, I shall claim to take extreme historical liberties for the sake of me not being a goofus. After all, R* did. So [waves hand] welcome to Red Dead ReDenver.

**__ **

**_August, 1899_ **

Arthur hated cities.

Every goddamn city he’d ever been in, the whole lot of them - giant messes of noise and movement and smells and lights that flooded and overloaded his senses in a chaotic din that made it damn near impossible to keep track of all the possible threats. They were also filled with apathetic, hollow-eyed bastards, rich and poor alike, who passed each other by with single-minded determination, slaves to all the clocks ticking in their breast coat pockets or looming over them in tall towers, passing by screams for help ringing from alleyways or out the windows of houses or sick, starving people in the street like they didn’t even exist. Everything natural - everything _human_ about cities - was drowned and boxed up and shut away behind brick and mortar, under concrete and cobblestone.

It also, of course, didn’t help that some of the worst horrors of his life took place in cities. Nashville came to mind, with the image of his father’s corpse swinging in the wind. There was also Saint Denis, with the image of blood exploding out of Dutch’s back, again, and again, and again, and again, _and again,_ **_and again,_** alongside the haunting sound of Hosea’s scream that still echoed in Arthur’s ears weeks later.

And now, there was _Denver._ The city that would take his entire family from him, shut _him_ away behind brick and mortar with everyone he loves an entire country away. Everyone except Hosea, that is, who’d be trapped just as well as him, alone, defenseless, homeless, and forced into the kind of “honest work” that killed men his age in a manner of weeks. Arthur wondered which one of them would die first. If the other would even have a way of knowing.

And that was the thing, wasn’t it? Arthur was _dying._ He’d faced down long odds before, but that almost mocking statistic that had come out of Captain Monroe’s mouth - _one in three if caught early in good living conditions_ \- was like a slap to the face. What the hell were his odds, then, caught late after months upon months of being run ragged and brutalized with scarce food? One in a hundred? One in a thousand? One in a million? Billion?

Arthur wanted to do nothing more than to fold, but Hosea, the damned _fool,_ had taken those odds and gone all in.

Even Charles had been willing to do the same, for reasons Arthur could not have even begun to understand. Charles… Charles had everything going for him. A strong and sound body, a sharp and clear mind, a warm heart and achingly kind soul that could make the whole world his oyster. He’d be fine without Arthur. He’d be _better_ without Arthur. He didn’t doubt the man’s declaration of love - he could _never_ doubt a man as pure and true as Charles Smith - but that just made him pray to whatever was listening that he’d die before the man made his way to Denver, or better yet, that Charles would come to his senses and spare himself the pain of seeing Arthur like this. It was a matter of small comfort to know that, no matter what, Charles would be fine - that he’d be able to move on, to live a good life.

Hosea, though…

Hosea was a house built out of toothpicks and tissue paper, held together by hopes and dreams. There once was a time where he’d seemed invincible and full of vitality, a rock that could bear infinite weight, an infinite pool of light. But that all changed as he’d aged, as his breathing got more and more strained, as his joints and nerves began to betray him. That all changed when he’d rode back to the gang after losing Bessie, drunk and hollow-eyed, with the light all but extinguished out of him. That all changed when he sat out in that street, cradling Dutch’s torn body, with the first glint of madness seeping into those too-tired eyes. That all changed when Arthur alongside John and Susan were forced to pin the man down and force his arms behind his back to stop him from digging out his own insides - when he told Arthur to his face that he’d almost killed himself.

There were select few times where he’d witnessed Hosea scream or cry. All of them haunted him. But that night three days ago, after Arthur had tried _so hard_ to work himself up to let Hosea and Charles go, to plan out putting his cattleman in his mouth so he’d go quick - when Hosea had screamed _YOU NEED ME_ with more pain and desperation than Arthur had ever seen or heard from him, a vein throbbing in his forehead with tears pouring down his face… The _look in his eyes…_

Arthur would always need Hosea. And he knew, with a sickening clarity, that _Hosea_ needed _him_ right back.

So. He supposed he wouldn’t be dying anytime soon.

“Arthur? You with me?”

Arthur squinted through the morning light and reluctantly dragged himself out of his head and back into the buzzing din of the world, blinking at the patient smile of the man in question, still in that garish yellow frilly dress and ridiculous hat that made his mouth quirk upwards despite himself. “Always,” he rasped, his throat gravel-raw.

They were standing beside the train station next to Killer and The Count at the hitching posts where Arthur had tacked them both up. The horses were still stressed out and keyed up from the long ride in the livestock car, and all the commotion of the city behind them - the scores of bodies making their way in every direction through the roads, wagons rolling through every street, the tolls of bells, barks of dogs, the coughs of the homeless already visible sitting destitute on the street - had them glancing around with their ears pinned back, wall-eyed. Arthur understood them. He felt the same way.

“Hey, boy,” he cooed softly, bracing his hands gently on Killer’s neck to firmly rub and pat him. The thoroughbred swiveled his ears and turned his eye on him, relaxing slightly with a soft, low noise. Arthur mirrored the horse and relaxed, focusing all of his attention on the feeling of his fine hair under his hands, the warm puffs of his breath, his smell. They created a feedback loop between each other, tuning out the city until the only thing that existed was man and horse. Killer’s eyes relaxed, becoming warm pools of comfort once more, and he cocked a rear hoof as he nuzzled his soft nose into Arthur’s beard. Arthur let a slow breath ease out of his tortured lungs and reached into his satchel to press a carrot into Killer’s mouth, and the echoing sound of the horse’s crunches and the smell of carrot juice gave him just enough sanity to let the outside world ease back in. “That’s my boy.”

A look over Killer’s back showed Hosea wrestling with The Count, the stallion continuously tossing his head and rearing slightly at Hosea with guttural grunts of complaint, ignoring Hosea’s beleaguered and slightly breathless words of, “Will _you calm down?_ I know, I _know,_ you whiny baby, I’ve been through a lot too but you don’t see _me_ being a bitch about it!”

He looked like a little old lady out of her league with her own horse, and he was getting condescending stares from passersby for it, too, which just made it all the funnier to Arthur. Little did they know they were looking at a grizzled outlaw arguing with a demonic little gremlin in the form of a horse. Chuckling, he called over, “You gotta move his feet, Ma! Du- Da never let him disrespect him like that!”

Hosea tiredly sighed - Arthur noticed he swayed on his feet a little - and gently pulled the reins to turn The Count’s nose towards him before digging his thumb into the horse’s flank and twisting with a storm of clicking noises. The Count complained loudly, but spun his hindquarters around and around, Hosea keeping pace with each step, until he finally stopped trying to rear and kick out. Hosea stopped, The Count turning to face him, but then the stallion tossed his head again.

Arthur fondly shook his head. “Back him up!” 

Hosea gently wiggled the reins and advanced with commanding steps and a strict _Tss! Tss! Tss!_ The Count backed up six steps into the distance, only stopping when Hosea did, and kept his ears and eyes forward on him, his head and his feet finally still.

Hosea sighed in relief. _“Thank_ you. Now c’mere, you devil,” he wheezed, gently giving the reins a single tug with a kissing noise, and The Count stepped up to him with a pleased glint in his eye to receive a peppermint.

Arthur mounted up onto Killer’s back with a bittersweet chuckle. “Pretty sure if anyone ‘sides you or I tried to do that, they’d be paste on the ground.” Hosea dragged himself up to perch sidesaddle on top of The Count, swaying uneasily again, his lungs whistling with shallow breaths. Arthur stiffened and frowned. “You all right old m- ma’am?”

Hosea gestured vaguely at his waist. “This corset… needs… to come _off.”_

A small spark went off in Arthur’s chest. They were _not_ going straight to the Sanatorium. They’d need to make at least one stop first, maybe more. If Arthur had his way, it would be as many stops as possible. The mission itself was enough to ease the lead pit in his stomach: get Hosea someplace he could change.

Arthur took a quick sip of water from his canteen and cleared his throat, wincing from the pain. “We oughta get to a hotel, then. Get us a room. Rest.”

Hosea nodded once, firm, and the spark in Arthur’s chest got brighter. “Then… let’s go.”

The two men nudged their horses into a slow, wary trot as they began navigating through the busy streets of Denver, riding close together amidst the almost anarchic rapids of bodies and horses and wagons. Arthur scanned his eyes around the streets, looking for any signs of saloons or hotels, and as he did so, his eyes continually snagged on posters hung on posts and walls and in windows with bold red leaders reading _Prevent Disease! Careless Coughing, Sneezing, and Spitting Spreads Influenza and Tuberculosis!_ and sad babies labeled _Don’t Kiss Me! Save Me From TB!_ and angry pointing people yelling _DON’T SPIT! Stop the spread of Tuberculosis!_

One of the homeless folk, a Chinese man in threadbare clothes, coughed raggedly into his sleeve right underneath one, and when he lowered his arm, his sleeve was red.

“Hey Hosea, can you spare a dollar?” Arthur asked quickly.

Hosea guided The Count to the edge of the road up against the sidewalk and pulled the stallion to a stop out of the stream of riders and wagons, Arthur pulling Killer to a stop beside him. Without any questioning, Hosea immediately reached into his satchel and handed Arthur a one-dollar bill. Arthur nodded his thanks and dismounted, walking over to the man curled up against the brick wall, handing it out to him. He swallowed, then awkwardly managed, “Here y’go, mister.”

The man’s eyes locked onto the money and lit up in a great blaze of hope. He clapped Arthur’s hand between both of his and shook it enthusiastically, taking the dollar and slumping against the wall in relief. In heavily accented English, the man managed, “Thank you.”

“Hey, so, uh…” Arthur continued, looking around anxiously, “you know anything about a Sanatorium here? National Jewish Health?”

The man squinted up at him and slowly, apologetically shook his head. “Sana… No, nothing like that.”

Arthur blinked. “Really? Nothing?”

The man shifted uncomfortably. “I do not understand you, sorry.”

Arthur let out a slow sigh, then tipped his hat at the man. “Hey, don’t worry about it. You take care now.”

The man smiled and waved at him, genuine.

Back in Killer’s saddle, as they were riding back out into the street again, Arthur turned to Hosea and rolled his tongue around in his mouth before prompting, “Sure seems to be a lot of sick homeless folk.”

The harsh lines in Hosea’s expression became even more harsh. “And I… don’t like that one bit.”

They exchanged a tense look with each other. The tenseness was undermined by Arthur’s involuntary snort.

A wan smile graced Hosea’s face. “It’s… the hat… isn’t it?”

“It’s the everything,” Arthur corrected. His eyes caught the words _Hotel_ a little ways ahead, and he perked up. “Though hopefully you won’t have to parade around in that getup much longer.”

Hosea followed his gaze and looked like he could fall out of the saddle in relief.

That sense of relief changed, however, when the two of them walked into the hotel lobby, Arthur coughing slightly in the crook of his elbow and Hosea doing his best to keep his body language in-character while short-of-breath and in pain, and the hotel clerk immediately grimaced at them.

Hosea opened his mouth and started to say in his forced alto, “Hello, we-”

The clerk held up a hand. “Ah, no, pardon me, we don’t serve your kind here.”

Arthur and Hosea both blinked. Then, Hosea said, using the full force of his steely tenor, “Well fuck you then.”

They left as quickly as they came in, the clerk looking thunderstruck behind them.

Arthur gave Hosea a hand back up into The Count’s saddle with an apologetic frown as Hosea said, “Guess… my old charm’s slippin’. We best… hurry this up.”

They continued to ride, winding and weaving through the blocks, finding and stopping at two more hotels over the next forty minutes. Both times, the experience repeated itself - with the clerks waving them away towards the door with short, curt barks to get out. Arthur even tried doing all the talking the third time while Hosea kept mostly obscured behind his back, his lace veil pulled low over his face, but even then the clerk still leaned back away in mild disgust and snipped, “I must ask you to leave before I call the police.”

Hosea and Arthur furiously marched out the door, shrugging at each other.

“Am I really…” Hosea dragged in a weak rasp as he braced himself against The Count “...bombing things… this bad?” He gestured at his face, sweaty and pinched with pain. “Did the… makeup wear off or…?”

Arthur squinted at him, looking every bit as put together as when scores of Pinkertons passed them by, then anxiously looked around. “Naw, I- I don’t understand it.” The hollow, rapid, shallow rattles of Hosea’s lungs were making his teeth grind. Arthur let out a low growl of frustration, then slung The Count’s saddle bags over his shoulder and marched Hosea down the sidewalk. “But we are gettin’ you out of that fuckin’ thing _right now.”_

He urgently led Hosea with a firm hand on the older man’s back without hearing any complaint - which just validated Arthur’s sense of urgency - glancing around with quick, analytic eyes for any hidden alcoves they could tuck away into for a quick change. He spotted a particularly promising alleyway and ducked them both into its shadows, following it to a grassy back courtyard sprawled behind a bunch of apartment buildings. There was a shadowy nook squeezed between two of the buildings, out of view of any windows and shielded from the street by a wooden privacy fence. It’d have to do.

Both men half-walked, half-jogged over and into it, and as soon as they were in cover, Arthur shoved the saddle bags into Hosea’s hands and turned around to give the man some privacy, blocking the entrance with his own body as he peered out for any figures skulking around. He heard the hat get violently flung off and knock against the wall, swiftly followed by the sound of the overcoat clasp being ripped off and then the splitting _rrrrrip_ of fabric. There was a rolling cascade of tiny impacts on the ground - three buttons went rolling past Arthur’s boots - and then finally, a loud _pop_ of tight fabric snapping loose, swiftly followed by the rapid expansion of Hosea’s lungs, which immediately spasmed into violent coughs. There was the clunk and clatter of boots and some more rustling of fabric, but Hosea’s coughs kept getting worse and worse until they started up that old warning screech and whistle. 

Arthur frowned and glanced over his shoulder just in time to see the man slump against the wall and slide down to the ground after only managing to get a pair of jeans and a half-buttoned work shirt on, clutching at his chest while bringing his elbow up over his mouth. His coughs ground to a halt, but so did his breath.

“Hey,” Arthur said worriedly, turning around and beginning to kneel down, “hey, easy th-” 

A spike of annoyance, frustration, and rage was all the warning he got before the cloying fingers in his own lungs seized him and exploded his chest in an agonizing bloom of pain, forcing tortured, ragged coughs out of his own throat that made him quickly spin around away from Hosea and throw up his own elbow to cover his mouth, which immediately let loose a splatter of red droplets. He staggered backwards against the wall, his boots sliding out from under him until he collapsed beside Hosea, who was fighting to gasp in strangled breaths with low hollow croaking noises.

Arthur threw out his free hand to fist into Hosea’s shirt at the same time he felt Hosea’s hand grab a fistful of his and twist it in a vice grip, and Arthur genuinely didn’t know if either of them were seeking to give or receive comfort, but the connection to Hosea was like a lifeline that Arthur clung to nevertheless.

It was all Arthur could do to focus on breathing. His lungs heaved and dragged in the pleasantly warm, not too thin, not too thick, comfortingly dry air of Denver deep into them in exchange for blood and phlegm, accepting the oxygen easily and graciously, not having to work nearly as hard as they did in the near-boiling soupy air of Lemoyne or the icy-sharp mist of the Grizzlies. A bubbling wave of relief washed over him when he realized his attack was ebbing far sooner than he’d expected it to. A soft breeze blew into the alley and caressed his face, cooling his sweat, and beside him he could hear Hosea’s lungs greedily drinking in the air through whatever thin passage they’d managed to leave open, the sound of his inhales growing deeper and deeper, louder and more at ease. The sun crested over the looming shadows of the buildings above them as if checking in on them, shifting its light to bathe them in comforting warmth like a thin blanket.

A long ten minutes later found them both still slumped against the wall of the alcove, pale, exhausted, and wincing at the lingering pain of their respective attacks as well as the pain that never truly left either of them, their eyes bloodshot, but - present. Their hands had gone from being fisted into each other’s shirts to gently resting on each other’s shoulders a while ago, and when Arthur looked over at Hosea, he saw his own tired, ironic grin mirrored back at him.

Arthur snorted. _“Lord,_ but we are a couple of miserable bastards who-” he ran out of breath and braced a hand on his chest as he carefully inhaled “- _just can’t_ figure out how to breathe, now can’t we?” he rasped.

Hosea weakly laughed. “It appears so.” He pulled his saddle-bags closer and took out his ascot, wetting it with water from his waterskin before using it to scrub off all the remaining makeup on his face. “What the hell _are_ lungs? Does anyone know?”

Arthur shrugged with a smile and let his head loll back against the stone. He watched, idly, as Hosea redid the buttons of his shirt and tucked it into his jeans, then pulled on and buttoned up his buckskin vest before wringing out the ascot and pulling it through his belt-loop to dry. He shoved his boots onto his feet, took a huge swig of water, and then clambered upright with a pained growl. Hosea then proceeded to gather up all the various bits and pieces of the destroyed dress, wadded it up, stepped up to a metal trash bin not far away, and forcefully slammed it down into the garbage, making Arthur laugh. He turned around and dusted his hands off with his nose stuck up in the air, his expression softening at Arthur, before walking up and holding out both his hands. _“Thank you,_ dear boy. What do you say you and I go eat ourselves a hot meal, hmm?”

 _Still not going to the Sanatorium._ Arthur released a breath he didn’t know he was holding and smiled warmly up at the man, taking his hands. “That’d be great.”

Hosea leaned back hard on his heels and grunted as he hauled Arthur up to his feet, then helped steady him as Arthur swayed, his knees bowing slightly. As soon as Arthur was steady, he felt Hosea’s arms crush him in a hug. His surprise made him stiffen, but it was over in a second, Hosea’s hand patting his back firmly before ruffling his hair. Arthur blinked rapidly and only barely ducked his head.

“I’m proud of you,” Hosea said easily, reaching down to pick his saddle-bags up off the ground and slinging them over his shoulders, glancing over at Arthur with crinkled eyes and a shining smile.

Arthur blinked at the man as he walked off back the way they came. “For what?” he asked, walking numbly after him.

“For thinking so quick on your feet." Hosea hesitated, then shrugged, looking warmly back over his shoulder. "For being here. For trying. For being you." He gave Arthur a pat on the stomach and continued through the alleyway.

Arthur stopped in his tracks and frowned. "What brought this on?"

Hosea stopped at the end of the alleyway and turned back to face him, leaning against the wall and crossing his ankles with that same shining smile, his hands in his pockets. "I just figured I don't tell you 'I'm proud of you' enough."

Arthur was speechless. After a few long seconds of silence, Hosea’s expression softened and he gestured Arthur after him, rounding the corner out of the shadows of the alleyway and into the sunlight.

Arthur’s gaze fell to the ground and his expression grew pinched. He couldn’t reconcile the man he’d just seen with the man he witnessed only five days ago, brokenly weeping into the mattress sounding like some kind of dying animal. Sure, they’d… talked about things afterwards and Hosea promised he’d try to get better, and things _did_ get better, but the man had still felt distinctly raw and tired with his spine bowed by the weight of the world, all the way up through Arthur’s diagnosis. Hell, all the way up through Strawberry, or even through that train.

The Hosea he’d just seen… it was like seeing a ghost. It was like the light the man had lost so long ago was suddenly back inside him, blazing brightly, bringing with it memories of John’s pre-pubescent voice, Miss Grimshaw’s smile, Dutch’s carefree eyes, Bessie's gravelly off-key singing, and Arthur’s own laughter, back when it was just the six of them. Only… it wasn’t like that. It was somehow _more._

It was something _new._

Arthur warily looked back up at the entrance of the alleyway. This new light, this new softness to Hosea… Was it… genuine, or something Hosea was forcing? Had the man, in some new fit of madness, deluded himself into thinking that Arthur wasn’t going to die? Or was it because this was, very likely, the last day they would ever spend together?

Did the fool realize he was just making things _harder?_

Arthur clenched his jaw and his fists and closed his eyes. He rolled his fingers over, under, and through each other in rapid, repeated motions to push down the sickening swell of unfair resentment as he dragged in a long breath through his nose and slowly let it out of his mouth. After a long moment, he stilled his hands, opened his eyes, and made his way out of the alleyway. 

\--

The two men didn’t have to ride long until they found a promising-looking saloon, Arthur with his old jacket back over his shoulders as an old comforting weight and pressure, and Hosea looking like… well, himself, and so the men pushed their way through the doors with their guards down. The saloon looked like a fairly middle-class business, with well-cared-for tables and floors but without much pomp or circumstance. It was fairly crowded in the midday hour, full of the din of conversations and a player at a piano. Hosea rubbed his hands together and led them up to the bar.

“Good day, barkeep! Could we-” Hosea started, just as Arthur covered a couple weak coughs with his collar.

The barkeep’s expression instantly twisted into a grimace as he got a look at them. “Oh, ugh, no, you need to get out of here.”

Arthur stiffened and glanced sideways at Hosea, whose friendly expression was frozen into a stiff, distinctly unfriendly mask. _“Excuse_ me?”

The barkeep gestured his head harshly at Arthur. “We don’t need fucking _lungers_ here, fella.”

Arthur’s stomach dropped out from under him as his blood turned to ice.

“I’m trying to run a safe establishment here, my custome-”

Suddenly it all made sense.

“What did you just call him?” Hosea asked slowly, enunciating each word with a sharp, warning edge. He didn’t even raise his voice from his initial question.

Arthur opened his mouth to say _Hosea_ but choked on the name, remembering their cover.

The barkeep wrinkled his nose. “A fucking _lunger,_ pal.” He glared at Arthur, only for Hosea to step between them, cutting off the man’s line of sight. “Whole city’s full of ‘em! Only getting _fuller!”_

Arthur rapidly ran his fingers through each other. “Let’s just leave.”

Hosea took a slow step up to the counter and leaned in, no doubt scowling with sharp, narrowed eyes. “I should cut out your tongue. _Lunger?_ Is that what you call honest folk dealt a bad hand, you sociopathic piece of-”

Arthur forcefully tugged on Hosea’s vest, taking a step back towards the doors. “Come _on,_ just drop i-”

The barkeep leaned into Hosea’s face, almost nose-to-nose. “I have the right to refuse service to anyone, old man, now you get yourselves the _hell o-”_

Hosea’s muscles started coiling up and Arthur barked, _“Daddy, don’t.”_

Hosea froze. With one last disgusted sneer at the barkeep, he snapped, _“I hope you get shown the same kindness_ when the world spits on _you!”_ before grabbing Arthur’s shoulder and marching them out the door, flipping the barkeep and all the other customers the middle finger as he did so.

“I can’t _believe_ that,” Hosea was snarling as soon as they exited the building. He immediately started pacing. “The fucking _nerve._ Well, I guess we know what the hell was wrong with those hotels! The fucking _people!”_ He turned and yelled out to the street, _“Is this whole city diseased in the head?!”_

Arthur’s eyes were locked onto a sign tucked into the corner of the saloon’s front window. _No admittance to those with TB._

The sound of Hosea’s stomping feet slowed, then stopped. After a long pause, they stepped softly closer, and Arthur heard Hosea’s voice sigh, all the anger and violence gone from it, “Oh, Arthur.”

“Fuck this place,” Arthur growled quietly. “Fuck ‘em all.” He turned on his heel and strode towards Killer.

There was only one time in his life he had ever felt more dirty. His skin crawled and tears pricked his eyes.

“Hey,” came Hosea’s voice again, soft yet firm, a drop of clear water that helped dispel the murky memories slithering up to the surface. Arthur swung up onto Killer and looked down at the man, who stepped up to his side and rested a warm hand over his, using the other to firmly squeeze Arthur’s shoulder, chasing away the rest of the muck. “Hey, never you mind all that. Who needs ‘em, eh? You and I can have lunch in a park. Just the two of us.” Hosea smiled brighter and rubbed Arthur’s back as Killer swung his head around and looked at him with big, worried doe-eyes.

He felt like a child.

“Whatever you say,” Arthur rasped, his expression sinking into a scowl as he moved the reins and tapped his heels against Killer’s flank, making the horse pull him out of Hosea’s hands and into the street. 

Hosea was at his side only seconds later, riding up on the back of The Count as they made their way through the streets again. “Did I ever tell you the story of when Dutch and I got run out of town by a mob in Ohio?”

Arthur frowned and looked away from him. “I ain’t in the mood for stories.”

“Not even the one about my run-in with the Ku Klux Kl-?”

“Can we just… not,” Arthur said quietly.

He heard a soft sigh from beside him. “Okay, son. We don’t have to talk if you don’t want to. We can just enjoy the day.”

They rode in silence together once more as they made their way to a park they passed during their quest for a hotel. The sun still shone brightly, birds sung from the rooftops of the multi-storied buildings, and the breeze was still gentle, as if trying to support Hosea’s words. People continued to surround them on all sides the whole way, however, and Arthur had to fight off a wave of nausea from trying to keep track of them all.

After hitching the horses, Hosea pulled out several cans of food and packets of oatcakes and crackers from his saddle-bags, passing half to Arthur, before gesturing for him to follow him. The two men walked through the park gate and along the elegant stone pathways, past well-kept gardens and water fountains and benches, until finally they found a picnic table under a large, shady tree.

“Here’s a good spot,” Hosea mused, turning off the path to walk towards the table. Arthur numbly walked after him and went to sit across from him, then remembered his all-too-frequent coughing fits and elected to sit beside the man instead. Hosea quickly set to work opening his cans of strawberries and corned beef with his hunting knife. Arthur set his on the table and stared at them.

After the sound of Hosea opening his food stopped, there was a long beat of silence. Then, a hesitant, “Aren’t you gonna eat, son?”

Arthur screwed his eyes shut as he rested his elbows on the table. “M’not hungry.”

There was another long stretch of silence. Arthur jerked slightly when he felt something brush against his back.

“...Are you all right if I touch you?”

Arthur bit his lip and nodded. Hosea’s hand returned to his back, pressing down hard and firm into it, rubbing around in large, smooth circles. The pressure made Arthur’s breaths come a little easier. 

Hosea’s voice was warm and tender. “What’s on your mind, dear boy?”

A harsh breath huffed out of Arthur’s lungs, because lord, how to answer that question? Everything. What was he even supposed to tell him? _I feel like a plague rat? I hate it here? I don’t want to go to a Sanatorium? I don’t want to leave you?_

_I don’t want you to leave me?_

Hosea’s voice again. “Is it about what happened back there?”

Arthur opened his eyes and sighed out of his nose with a grimace. He shrugged.

Hosea hummed. “So… that, and something else, eh?” Arthur nodded slightly. Hosea’s hand slowed down as the man thought. “Is it about the Sanatorium?” Arthur rolled his bottom lip between his teeth for a long moment before nodding, once. “...Ah.”

A long silence hung between them. Hosea’s hand gradually worked its way up his back and into his hair, carding through it in slow, gentle strokes, tucking it behind his ear. His other hand slowly drifted into Arthur’s vision to fold over his forearm, gripping it firm and gentle, rubbing his thumb into the sleeve. Arthur slowly, reluctantly turned his head to meet the man’s eyes, which were… _sad._ His brow was furrowed upwards, and his mouth was a firm line. Hosea sighed softly, then said, “Arthur… You know I would never, _ever,_ force you to go in there if you didn’t want to, right?”

Arthur carefully took the fingers of his right hand and started up their old motion. Over, under, through. With a sigh, he hung his head. “‘Course I do,” he said roughly. “But… you think it’s best for me, right?”

“What I think doesn’t matter, son,” Hosea said gently. “It’s your body.”

Arthur frowned and glared at him. “I didn’t want any of this.”

Hosea blinked slowly, hand still carding through Arthur’s hair. “What you _wanted_ was to die.”

Arthur wet his lips and cleared his throat. His glare fizzled out; he couldn’t keep up the energy to sustain it. “And you won’t let me,” Arthur said, tiredly.

Hosea’s hands grew impossibly gentler. “...Maybe I do override you on some things. I won’t let you hurt or kill yourself and I won’t let you give up.” He scooted closer and wrapped the arm he was using to brush Arthur’s hair around his shoulders and squeezed, snug. His voice grew quiet and very soft. “Just like I know you won’t let me do the same.”

Arthur blinked away a sudden sting in his eyes and shuddered out a sigh, leaning his head towards Hosea, which the man readily met with his own, temple-to-temple. Arthur cleared his throat again. “I won’t be here to stop you from doing anything if I’m in there, though.”

“My boy’s going to need me when he gets out of there,” Hosea said warmly. “I wouldn’t dare.”

Arthur’s eyes stung again. “How you gonna support yourself all alone?” He glanced down at the complete absence of the man’s gun-belt.

Hosea snorted. “I made it on my own before.”

Arthur screwed his face up. “You said yourself you never earned an honest dollar in your life.”

“I took a bounty once!”

“That was Annabelle, and you never collected it because you recruited her instead. Also, bounty hunters need guns.”

 _“My boy,”_ Hosea drawled out, long and slow, giving him a gentle shake, “I will figure it out. _Please,_ don’t you worry about me, and don’t make the reason you don’t wanna go to the Sanatorium be ‘cause you’re worryin’ about me, neither.”

Arthur let out a slow breath and deflated. Warily, he rested a hand over Hosea’s. “...You really think they can help me?”

Hosea gently knocked his head against Arthur’s. “I think they’ll be a building full of medical professionals with the money, supplies, and resources to give you the care and help you deserve.” He pressed a chaste kiss to Arthur’s temple. “I want my boy taken care of.”

The tightness in Arthur’s muscles slowly began unwinding. He clenched his jaw, then quietly said, “But I won't be able to see or talk to you.”

“I’ll write you letters every week, if not every day,” Hosea promised, giving him a squeeze. “You can send me some of your lovely sketches, and I can send you books!”

Arthur’s fidgeting fingers slowly clenched into a fist. “...What if I die while I’m in there.”

Every muscle in Hosea tensed. After a long, heavy silence, the man relaxed again and said, “Thinking about things like that can’t bring us anywhere good. Whatever comes, comes. We’ll just do everything we can in the meantime.” 

Arthur bit down his last question. _What if I deserve this._ With a heavy sigh, he straightened and nodded, slowly. “Okay. I… Okay.”

Hosea reluctantly leaned away from him, but kept his hand on his back. “Now. With all that - and knowing that it’s okay to say no - do you want to go to the Sanatorium because it’s something _you_ want, son?”

_No._

“Yes,” Arthur lied.

Hosea smiled and relaxed, his eyes crinkling. “I’m proud of you. And again - I promise to send you letters _every week._ Don’t think for a second I won’t rob a man for postage!”

Arthur laughed weakly and took out his hunting knife, prying open his can of pineapples. Hosea gave him three hard pats on the back and then covered a cracker with his strawberries.

They ate slowly, carefully, in a forced uneasy peace, dragging out the meal as long as they could, savoring each bite as much as they savored every second with each other.

\--

It was with a cold, thick, muffled sense of inevitability that they came to the conclusion their next stop should be the Sanatorium.

They left the park on the backs of The Count and Killer at a slow, steady walk to search for the building. It was mid-afternoon when they began their reluctant search, and they spent hours scouring the various city districts, giving money to the homeless folk they passed. There were coughs on every block, a steady din of background noise that made the hair on the backs of their necks stand on end. At one point, they passed a woman curled up on a strip of burlap on a street corner, lying very, very still. Too still. Blood streaked the corners of her mouth, and when Arthur finally got a look at her eyes, they were milky.

Arthur shuddered and kicked Killer into a canter, ignoring the flashes of Dutch’s face behind his eyes.

At long last, as the sun was sinking low in the sky, they spotted posters and signs directing them towards _The_ _National Jewish Hospital for Consumptives ._ The sense of dread that had been planted and festering in their stomachs moved the both of them to urge their horses into urgent trots, restless to put an end to the tense uneasiness, to find an answer to the screaming warnings scratching at their guts.

They left the boundary of the city and rode for about a mile before they spotted the building of the Sanatorium sitting on its own surrounded by wide, rolling, empty fields, with a sign declaring its name standing proudly beside the road. Arthur was expecting it to look like the other Sanatoriums that the gang had passed in their years of roaming - big, sprawling stone prisons with cold, ominous profiles that seemed to growl at them as they rode past. This Sanatorium looked… quaint, like one of the Victorian-style Bed and Breakfasts he’d stayed in in California. It was modestly sized and built out of warm, rustic bricks with fun little ornamentations on its roof trim, and wore a dainty wrap-around porch and balcony with white-painted rails and columns. Its windows were dark and still, and there wasn’t a soul around it for miles.

It sat empty.

Barren.

The first thing that Arthur felt was a vibrant, bubbling wave of cool, jubilant _relief_ that slammed into and washed over every inch of him like an ocean wave.

The second thing that Arthur felt was a slow, icy crawl of numbness as the reality of their situation sank in.

He stared, blankly, as Hosea slowly slid off of The Count and walked up onto the porch of the building, shifting uneasily on his feet before trying the front door. Locked. 

That was when the panic started slithering up out of Arthur’s stomach.

“Hello!”

Arthur jumped and twisted around in his saddle. A middle-aged man with a full, bushy beard and long hair of gray-streaked brunette down to his shoulders rode up to them on the back of an old chestnut, wearing a plain, modest black suit and black hat. Silver-framed glasses sat upon his nose. “Are you two gentlemen here trying to check in?”

Hosea waved at the man from the porch with a smile. “Hello to you, kind Sir! And we are - or, my son is. I’m Mordechai Jones, and this fine lad here is my son, Arthur. Might I ask your name, friend?”

The man immediately looked intensely anxious and apologetic. “Oh, _no,”_ he whined, pulling his horse to a stop beside the building and dismounting. He immediately looked at Arthur and put his hand over his heart, and there were countless other men who’d make that an empty gesture, but something in Arthur told him the gesture coming from this man was genuine. “I’m so sorry, Mr. Jones, but we haven’t been able to open the hospital for six years. But!” He held up his pointer fingers and started excitedly waving them around, bouncing on the balls of his feet. “Butbutbut! We’ve just secured the last of our funding this year, we just- we just need to _get the money_ and equip it properly and buy our supplies and hire a team of staff, and then we will open! Soon! Soon soon soon!”

“How soon?” Hosea prompted from the porch, leaning on the rail with casually folded arms and an easy smile.

The man only spared Hosea a glance before looking back at Arthur, folding his hands together as if pleading. “We’re hoping by the end of this year! We’ve made our goal December! We refuse to open later than January, we are working as hard as we can, again, I’m so sorry, it’s been tearing us apart watching the poor suffer unaided for this long, this must be so difficult for you, I know- Four months is a long time with tuberculosis, I can give you resources! I have resources in the office! Come, come! I’ll open the door for you!”

Arthur numbly dismounted Killer, feeling like he was in a cavernous, echoing room. He followed after the man without thinking, falling into step beside Hosea as the man unlocked the front doors and pushed them open, ushering them inside and through the dark hallway into a side office. He excitedly gestured for them to sit down in two chairs in front of the desk.

“Oh!” The man chirped, gently touching his forehead and chuckling. “I am Rabbi Lyman by the way! Silly me!” He frantically tore through the desk and rapidly placed pamphlets on the wood like he was dealing cards. “Here is information, things that can help you, names and locations of nearby tent farms, or ways for you to manage it at home- Oh!” He glanced up at them. “What are your plans? Is your father able to be a caretaker, Mr. Jones?”

Arthur blinked.

“I can happily be his caretaker,” Hosea declared, his voice warm and firm as he rested a hand over Arthur’s.

Rabbi Lyman nodded excitedly. “Oh, _please,_ have some pamphlets!” He shoved fistfuls of papers towards them both. Arthur stared blankly at them as Hosea excitedly picked them up and started reading. “Are you natives? Or did you travel here?”

Hosea hummed harshly. “We came here from West Elizabeth only to get run out of a few establishments. One fool had the nerve to call my boy a ‘lunger.’”

 _“Oh no,”_ Rabbi Lyman whined again, pausing his search to look at Arthur with huge eyes. “Oh, no, I’m so _sorry-_ the locals are so… mm, they have little sympathy because they are scared, they fear what they do not understand or they fear for their patrons, which is understandable, but most are ignorant, you must forgive them, a _third_ of this city is made of people who came here with respiratory problems because the air here is perfect, just perfect, and our city is beautiful and full of kindness too, I promise!” He looked back down to his search and pulled out a leather-bound ledger before looking back to them both. “Do you men have money? A place to stay?”

Arthur curled into himself as Hosea grimaced and said, “We just got here today.”

Rabbi Lyman started bouncing again. “I can give you money if you need it! Whatever you need, and here-” he pulled out a few more pamphlets “-here are organizations that can help you get housing if you plan on staying long-term!”

Hosea scooped up all the papers and packets and pamphlets and stacked them neatly. “Any money you can spare would be _dearly_ appreciated, friend.”

“Well then here here here,” Rabbi Lyman said rapidly, digging into his satchel and handing Arthur a money clip, which Arthur took numbly and automatically. “There’s twenty dollars in there, I’m sorry I don’t have more, that can get you a room to stay in as you figure things out! The saloons in the poorer districts won’t turn away your money! Do you need anything else?! Anything, anything?”

Hosea chuckled. “You’ve helped us plenty, my good man. Thank you.”

“Oh, it’s no trouble, no trouble,” Rabbi Lyman tutted as he closed up the desk again and tucked the ledger under his arm. Hosea stuffed all the papers into his satchel. “Let me walk you gentlemen out!”

Arthur numbly watched from somewhere far back behind his body as he walked behind the two men out the front door. Rabbi Lyman locked the door behind them and waved rapidly at them, bidding them good day and good luck and good wishes before hurrying off to his horse. Arthur blinked, and suddenly he couldn’t see Rabbi Lyman anymore, the man long gone, and Hosea was talking to him but he couldn’t make out the words, couldn’t make out the man’s face either, both seeming like they were above the surface of a pool of water and Arthur was sinking to the bottom.

This was everything he had been hoping and wishing for with all his heart ever since the topic of going to a Sanatorium first came up.

Now it was a reality.

And it was _horrifying._

They were homeless. They were homeless, alone, in a big city, and Arthur was _dying,_ he was dying and he was _scared_ and Hosea - everything fell on Hosea. Hosea, who’d already been bearing the entire weight of the gang until it broke him, snapped him into tiny splinters like a frail dry twig, who was old and ailing with a body that plagued him with pain with every step- Hosea would have to work _and_ care for him. He’d have to work, not just for himself, but for _both of them,_ or he’d have to live as starved and desperate as Arthur would be in some shanty town surrounded by other tuberculosis victims on all sides which could- _Hosea could catch it and-_

And Hosea had been getting _better,_ Hosea had just defeated the unholy monster that lurked in his brain, he stepped back from the brink and said he wanted to _live for himself,_ he had an entire future ahead of him, he had John and Tilly and Lenny and all the others loving him and wanting him in their lives, he’d worked himself to the bone making sure the gang could get to Alberta, he could have gone to Alberta, but instead he was trapped, he was trapped and he was going to _die_ all because of Arthur and he’d have to bear the weight of Arthur because Arthur ruined everything and stole the man’s future and happy ending from him all because Arthur _beat a man to death_ for a few paltry bucks like some kind of _monster,_ like everything Dutch and Hosea taught him not to be- this was an end he deserved, this was a death he’d earned, but now Hosea’s entire life was stolen from him because _Arthur stole it,_ because Arthur burdened the man with- because he was a burden-

He was a burden-

He was a _burden-_

_A burden-_

-~-~-

A dark hallway. Flashes of light out a window.

Light gray skies. Cold wind hitting his face as he was dragged through a door.

A harsh grip on his small, frail arm. Dirty jeans on a man stomping through a muddy yard, almost yanking his arm out of his socket as he stumbled behind him, only as tall as the man’s hip.

“But Mama-” he whimpered.

His father stopped in his tracks and violently whipped him around, kneeling down to snarl into his face, his hands gripping his arms hard enough to bruise, shaking him like a rattle. _“Shut up about your Mama,”_ his father snapped. “Don’t you fucking talk about her no more. She’s dead, you hear me? _Dead!”_

He started crying. “But she’s right in there-!”

There was a loud _crack_ as his father’s hand slammed into his skull. His vision whited out and turned into multi-colored spots before the bloom of pain spread across his cheek, sharp and deep. He cried harder.

 _“Stop fucking crying, boy!”_ his father snapped. “Boys don’t fucking cry and boys only speak when spoken to, and when you speak to me you speak with _respect,_ you understand? Say ‘Yes, Sir!’”

“Yes, Sir!” he whimpered, his tiny voice strangled as he desperately tried to stop crying.

His father’s eyes were so blue. They were the most colorful thing in their gray, muted surroundings, the aftermath of a storm, but the storm was still going in them, the pupils tiny pinpricks. “I made a promise to that woman that I’d look after you if she couldn’t,” his father sneered, “and she sure as hell can’t now, but don’t you ever get it into your stupid skull that I _have_ to take care of you, boy. I sure as shit done broke plenty of promises before over things far greater than _you._ You have any idea how much harder you’re gonna make my life, boy?! Fuck!” His father let go of him and took a few steps back, his hands flying up to clutch at his black leather hat as he paced frantically back and forth through the mud. The length of rope tied around it trembled in the wind, and Arthur trembled with it.

His father shook his head and whirled on him, pointing a violent finger at him as he towered over him. “I’m the only one in this world who could give a _shit_ about you now,” he snarled. _“I’m the only one_ who’d lift a finger for your worthless hide. You gonna burden me every day, make me work even harder than I already have been?! You best be grateful, kid. You best thank me every goddamn day. Say ‘Thank you, Sir!’”

“Thank you, Sir!”

 _“Fuck!”_ His father began pacing again, his head tilted far back as he stared up at and cursed the sky. “Shit. Fuck. God. Piece of shit kid. This fucking kid. Good-for-nothing… fucking…” He dragged in a long, shaking breath, then swallowed thickly, turning to Arthur, red-in-the-face with wet eyes. “...You are a _burden._ You _remember that.”_

Arthur shook. 

He nodded.

-~-~-

_“Arthur!”_

He was a burden.

_“Arthur!”_

He was a burden.

“Arthur, Arthur, look at me, son, look at me, Arthur look at me, Arthur, Arthur, Arthur, please, son, look at me, hey, hey-”

Arthur hitched a breath and tried to focus his eyes. His father’s young face swam out of his vision, taking with it his cold blue eyes and dirty-blonde hair, replacing them instead with Hosea’s silver. Arthur blinked the blurriness out of his vision and the old, worn wrinkles on Hosea’s face swam into focus, along with his wide, worried hazel eyes. He blinked again and registered Hosea’s hand curled around his, with his other hand cradling the back of his head, which was very warm and stinging in one spot, his hair wet and sticking together. He glanced down at the hand that Hosea’s was protectively curled around and saw that its knuckles were split open and bruised, blood oozing out of the wounds in slow, lazy trails. He was sitting with his back against the brick of the Sanatorium. They were still on the porch.

“Hey,” Hosea said softly, “Arthur, hey. It’s okay. It’s okay.”

 _“It’s not,”_ Arthur ground out.

“We’re going to _make it okay,”_ Hosea pressed.

Arthur shook his head and slammed his eyes shut, pulling his knees up to his chest to form a barrier between them. He sucked in a breath, choked, then coughed raggedly into the cloth of his pants. He felt phlegm shoot into his mouth, and he shuddered as he swallowed it. _“Dammit,”_ he sobbed.

Boys don’t cry.

He felt Hosea shift his weight over closer, and Arthur flinched away, drawing his knees up tighter. Hosea stilled, then gently caressed his thumb over Arthur’s palm. “Oh, Arthur...”

_“I’m sorry.”_

“What for?”

Arthur shook his head again. He couldn’t look at the man.

“Arthur, there’s nothing to be sorry about-”

_“I ruined everything.”_

“My boy, you did _not.”_

Arthur trembled and sucked in short, shaky breaths that rattled in his chest. “It shouldn’t be you,” he said brokenly. “You shouldn’t even be here. _I_ did it. I beat the man. ‘Cause I couldn’t care o-or- or was too stupid to think for myself, to let the debt go, to let that family live and love each other. So I beat him. I beat him and I killed him and I tore that family apart like a- like a wolf on a carcass. _He was coughing,_ Hosea, coughing bad, and I beat him, and he coughed blood right in my face. He was begging me. _Begging me._ And I didn’t listen. I deserve to die, Hosea, _I deserve to die_ for what I did, this is my payment and I deserve to pay the price, but _you don’t.”_

Hosea was silent.

Arthur shuddered out a sob that let loose a wave of tears and hated himself for it, a drop in the ocean of all the other things he hated himself for. “What are we even fuckin’ doing here. W- Why… Why’d you do it. Why’d you come here. You coulda been happy, ‘Sea, _you coulda been happy._ I never wanted- I never wanted to burden you. I never wanted to burden you like this, you _gotta believe me, I never wanted to burden you-”_

Hosea surged forward and crushed him into a hug, folding him down and into his chest, encasing him wholly and completely in his arms and legs, his head tucked over his, and Arthur was flooded by the old, familiar, comforting smell of the man as his nose was mashed into his shirt - of shaving cream, gun oil, and a smell distinctly him, like pine needles and cedar smoke. Arthur dragged in a deep breath, and the smell transported him back to the select few memories where Hosea had held him like this before. He could count the times on one hand. 

There was the time when he was sixteen and had gotten separated from Hosea and Dutch for three hours in the middle of a brutal firefight and he hadn’t known which thought was worse - that they’d both died or they’d abandoned him - only to finally find them and witness a distraught Hosea sprint over to him and fold him down to the ground against his chest, wrapping around him like a shield as Arthur wailed and wept in relief. Then there was the time, years and years later, when he’d pushed Boadicea hard for thirty miles all the way back to camp so that he could collapse onto the ground, screaming, screaming, screaming, and when Hosea and Dutch had pulled him away to privacy and he finally managed to shriek out “ _They killed them- Eliza and Isaac- they’re dead, they killed her and our baby- they killed my baby-”_ it was Hosea who folded him against his chest and curled around him on the ground, carding his fingers through his hair and rocking with him and wailing right along with him, knowing all-too-well the apocalyptic agony that Arthur was going through as he chanted _“My boy, my boy, my sweet boy.”_

And now there was the present, in Denver, where Arthur was yet again feeling Hosea’s chest hitch and tremble against his face as Hosea clutched at him and cried.

“You don’t deserve to die,” Hosea croaked, “you _don’t deserve to die,_ and- oh, _Arthur- son,_ you could never be a burden to me. You hear me?! You could _never_ be a burden to me. You make me happy. _You make me happy._ My boy, my sweet, precious boy, you’re my _world.”_

Arthur sniffled, shuddered, and collapsed against his chest. 

They stayed like that for a long while until the tear-stains on their cheeks dried and the sky went from blue to a warm, orangey lilac, listening to each other breathe. 

Arthur eventually rasped, “I killed him… in cold blood...”

Hosea brushed his hair out of his face and looked down at him with old, tired eyes. “You and I _both_ are killers, son. There’s a whole lot of folk dead by our hands, and by all counts there are a thousand instances where the both of us shoulda died too, but we didn’t. We’re still here. And they’re not. And maybe that ain’t fair to them or whatever power runs the universe or to the law or to society, but you know how I see it, dear boy?” Arthur looked up at him. “I see… _you._ You and all your kindness. Your tender care for Killer and all the horses and every other animal you come across. The way you drop everything to help folk you don’t even know out on the road or on the street. The care and protection you’ve shown John and Tilly and Lenny and Abigail and little Jack and all the rest of them.” He paused. “The care and protection you’ve shown _me.”_ Hosea pressed a kiss to his hair. “There’s so much good in you, son, and you’ve poured as much of it into this hurting, wounded world as you’ve added pain to it. There’s a _healer_ inside you, Arthur. And I cannot - _cannot_ allow myself to believe that this world would rid you from it before you have a chance to find that part of yourself. Before you have a chance to find peace and make peace with it, to write so many more stories.”

Arthur desperately wanted to believe him. He so, so desperately wanted to believe him. He sagged further against Hosea and asked, “...And if I do die?”

Hosea pressed another kiss to his hair, long and heavy. “...Then whatever force created this world will have a reckoning from me.” He ruffled Arthur’s hair, and they shared a humorless laugh.

After another long beat of silence, Arthur shook his head and smiled. “You’re too good for me, Hosea.”

“My boy,” Hosea replied dryly, _“you_ are too good for _me.”_

Arthur finally leaned away from him and sat up, exchanging a soft, exhausted smile with Hosea before pushing himself to his feet. He reached out his good hand to help the old man up, who gratefully took it and rose with a long chain of pops and cracks, making him wince. Arthur chuckled at him, which earned him a soft, tender swat to his side, and the two men made their way back to the horses, mounting up onto their backs and turning away from the vast, open country of Colorado back towards the twinkling lights of Denver where the city waited for them in the distance.

“I’ll race you back,” Hosea said with a wink.

Arthur slowly grinned and rubbed Killer’s neck. “I think Killer could do with a rematch. Ain’t that right, Count?”

The Count tossed his head with a snort and fixed Killer with a thunderous glare, making the thoroughbred lower his ears and duck his head in submission. The two men laughed, loud and hearty.

“You old mean cuss,” Hosea chided, patting The Count’s neck fondly before turning back to Arthur. “I saw a doctor’s office a few blocks into town on this road. What say you we race there to get your hand and your head checked out, then buy ourselves a warm meal and a couple beds at a saloon? Figure out a plan to make a home here?”

Arthur took a deep breath of the warm, gentle air that playfully swirled through his lungs, the evening wind whipping his hair. “Sounds pretty great, ‘Sea. ...On my count?”

Hosea grinned and readied his position, The Count swiveling an ear back to listen to him.

“One…” Arthur said with a smirk, readying himself in the saddle with a couple pats to Killer’s neck. “Two…” He felt his stallion tighten his muscles underneath him, ready to spring, The Count entirely forgotten in exchange for what his dearest friend was about to ask of him. “Three! _Go!”_

The two stallions exploded into gallops, their eyes alight with glee as the wind whipped through their manes and tails and their ears tuned into the rings of laughter of their two riders as they shot off towards the warm lantern lights of the city in the distance, which looked like a swarm of fireflies under the darkening sky. The moon was rising and the first stars were peeking through the veil as if eager to spectate their race, and as Killer slowly gained on and then overtook The Count on the mile stretch, prompting a proud, beaming smile from Hosea, Arthur allowed himself something selfish.

He allowed himself to hope.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> [Innocent shrug] National Jewish Health Sanatorium only opened on December 10th, 1899, and I was never interested in separating Arthur and Hosea in the first place. I have a story to tell with this father and son duo, after all.
> 
> Also, turns out the derogatory word "lunger" aimed towards people suffering from TB was a real?? Fucking thing??? And that people actually refused service to folk with TB in Denver. _That_ was some BS I found in my research that made me drag my hands down my face. Thankfully, there are plenty of Hoseas and Rabbi Lymans in the world, too.
> 
> (Also... you may have noticed the total chapters have now jumped up to 20. Guess who completely reworked his outline???? This guy.)
> 
> Also, this chapter somehow earned itself [a gorgeous piece of fanart](https://www.instagram.com/p/CDiCvDBCPaI/) by @disishistory 🥺 Please support her incredible art!!
> 
>  **1\. Dutch van der Linde's Last Stand**  
>  **2\. Escape from Saint Denis**  
>  **3\. Escape from Lemoyne**  
>  **4\. The Letter**  
>  **5\. Reunions**  
>  **6\. Unfinished Business**  
>  **7\. I Know You**  
>  **8\. Dreams, Omens, and Other Harbingers**  
>  **9\. For Whom the Bell Tolls**  
>  **10\. My First Boy**  
>  **11\. National Jewish Health**  
>  12\. Sins of the Past


	12. Sins of the Past

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warning** for allusions to **physical/emotional child abuse and alcoholism, child neglect,** and **gore.** (Disclaimer: This chapter also explores Hosea's Jewish heritage. I am goy, with a loved one who is a conversion student, and I know that despite my love and commitment to supporting them through entering the community, I can still cause great harm and make mistakes. I tried my best to delicately step around writing about the experience of being Jewish, since that's not my right, but still wanted to write a loving depiction of Judaism and representation of Jewish characters. If you are Jewish and are uncomfy by anything I have done here, please feel free and comfy to call me out.)
> 
> I... [low whistle] So. I've been _up to things._ One of those things was rewriting and reuploading the entirety of chapter 1 of this fic because I knew I could write it so much better and with so much more weight now, and I'm proud of the update. The other thing is - well. This chapter. Which is... huge. Again. So! It looks like chapters in Chapter VI are prone to large sizes anyways. You may notice the chapter title for this is different - that's because I had to take the original and splice it into two parts. I... there's just so many things I want to explore and I love these characters so much... Although I imagine y'all are used to this by now, bless your hearts.
> 
> (Also, sidenote: I determined that I initially misdiagnosed Dutch - after spending an excruciatingly long time sitting in the man's head, writing him, and exploring his character, I've determined that, rather than having Narcissistic Personality Disorder, he actually has Borderline Personality Disorder alongside PTSD and Bipolar, and goodness knows I've written him in this fic as having BPD even before I knew it. If you're curious, you can read DSM-5 information for BPD [here!](https://www.theravive.com/therapedia/borderline-personality-disorder-dsm--5-301.83-\(f60.3\)) Thank you for coming to my "I have a psychology minor!" TED Talk)
> 
> I hope you all enjoy ♥

Arthur scratched some sleep dust from the corners of his eyes and pulled the brim of his father’s hat lower down to shield his face from the Tennessee sun, sweat running down his temples in little streams. His stomach growled and he could feel the hot pavement through the holes in the bottom of his boots.

Carefully, he flicked his eyes around the street as he walked. Half of him wanted to throw his hat on the ground and rip his clothes off along with his skin at the feeling of the hot muggy heat that clung to every inch of him, but the other half wanted money for food and new boots. Maybe an ice bag, too, to pour down his shirt. He shuddered and turned a street corner. No, that would be too much. He was already feeling  _ too much _ \- the heat was too much, the sweat, the hunger, the sun, the sounds of feet and horse hooves swarming the streets, the presence of bodies all around him, moving past him,  _ brushing against him. _ He just wanted it all to  _ stop, _ but in order to do that, he needed money for food and non-sweaty clothes and a bath, and he needed it a week ago.

Perhaps that was why he was so willing to ignore the guns sitting heavy in their holsters on the hips of those two men. One of them was a broad-shouldered dark-haired feller with long curly hair and soft, rounded features on a smooth face. He spoke loudly in a warbly baritone to a tall, lean, light-blonde man with chiseled features on a sharp face, who answered him back with dry comments in a warm tenor. A fat satchel hung off the shoulder of the dark-haired one, and Arthur had been stalking them both ever since he first heard them say “our investors” and “account auditors” in passing. He had no idea what those words referred to, but he’d been around long enough to figure out they were attached to rich folk.

These two fellers didn’t exactly look rich - the dark-haired one was wearing a plain red shirt and faded brown vest and the blonde one was wearing a simple denim shirt that looked slightly too big for his frame, both in blue jeans - and Arthur  _ knew  _ that things weren’t adding up, but  _ something  _ was filling out that satchel, and Arthur  _ wanted it. _

He saw his chance when the two men stopped in front of the window of a fancy clothes store, one of the ones that had a person fit folks’ clothes for them, and started up an argument. Arthur continued his steady pace down the sidewalk towards them, trying his best to meld into the crowd until he got close enough. As he approached, he could hear their conversation.

“-reat ourselves.”

“With what? The latest fashions?”

“A man’s appearance reflects his value, Hosea.”

“Don’t be going elitist on me now, Dutch.”

_ “Ha! _ Oh, you mock me! Do I look like a peacocking poppin’jay to you?”

“Yes.”

“You wound me.”

“You love me.”

“I do. You and your ugly-ass clothes.”

“I hate you.”

It was right as the dark-haired man feigned a mock gasp at his friend that Arthur flicked his wrist out and yanked the satchel off his shoulder while digging his feet into the ground and  _ bolting  _ around the corner into an alleyway-

Slender fingers snapped down around his wrist like a bear trap and squeezed hard enough to make the bones in his hand grind together, and Arthur was jerked to a halt, his head whipping back and around. He caught the dark-haired man choking from his mock-gasp turning into a real one in the background, but then his eyes landed on the man who caught him - the blonde one - staring at him with bared teeth and wide eyes that promised violence.

Arthur couldn’t tell if they were hazel or blue.

Pure terror poured through Arthur’s veins, lending his scrawny, gangly frame extra strength as he violently thrashed and wiggled his way out of the man’s grasp to launch into a dead sprint. The blonde had to take a moment to recover, but the dark-haired one was instantly sprinting after him, hot on his heels and… laughing?

_ “Get back here!” _

Arthur clung tighter to the satchel and flew out the end of the alleyway to dart across the busy street. A glance over his shoulder showed both men deftly ducking and weaving through the riders and wagons in the road, so he turned forward again and focused all his energy on trying to outrun them. One pair of footsteps was gaining on him, so on the next street, he dodged a quick right and sprinted down the sidewalk, serpentining through passersby and causing them to yelp and cuss. The dark-haired one didn’t take the bait and ran down the street instead, catching up quick, so Arthur ducked into another alleyway.

“He went right! I’ll keep on him, you head him off!” yelled that deep voice, and Arthur couldn’t see the blonde one anymore when he glanced around, which just made him run faster.

The dark-haired man kept gaining on him and shouting out the directions he was going, and Arthur swore he kept seeing flashes of blonde in the directions he was trying to run towards, so with his stomach in his throat, he ducked into an alleyway and flung a trash can over behind him before lunging up onto a fire escape. He heard the dark-haired man stumble and swear as he caught himself, then yell “Ah hell, he’s going up on the roofs!”

When Arthur was almost at the top of the fire escape, he felt the ladder rattle and glanced down to see the dark-haired man rapidly hauling himself up, two rungs at a time. With a frantic wince, Arthur hauled himself up onto the roof and took off, leaping onto the next roof and then down onto a balcony, which he jumped over and onto a terrace, then an awning.

“He’s heading west down the buildings!” yelled the dark-haired man, staring down at him from the roof of the building with an out-of-breath, incredulous smile. He jumped down the side onto a balcony directly above the awning Arthur was on, and Arthur scrambled to scoot off the edge of it and land hard on the sidewalk below with a harsh grunt. “He’s on the ground!”

Arthur recovered and ran out into the street at the same moment the dark-haired man tried to jump down onto the awning, which immediately snapped and buckled under his weight, and Arthur paused and looked back to catch the man’s yelp of  _ “SHIT” _ as he hit the ground hard enough to bounce and rolled out into the road, directly into the path of an oncoming draft horse pulling a wagon at an urgent trot.

Arthur took a half-step towards him and cupped his hands to yell “Mister, look out!”

The man flailed his limbs and rolled back onto the opposite sidewalk just in time to miss a bucket-sized hoof slamming down where his head was. As soon as Arthur was sure he wasn’t going to die, he whirled around and sprinted down another alleyway, a huge smile on his face, certain that he was finally homefr-

A boot flashed out from the corner right as he was about to sprint out the exit, and the next thing Arthur knew, his shin was slamming into it, tripping him to harshly land and skid on the stone with a  _ whud. _

Arthur was just beginning to register the blooming, burning pain erupting in his knees and palms and chin where his skin was scraped off when he caught sight of a hand flashing down towards him, making him tense and shriek and screw his eyes shut, arms flying up to shield his head-

He felt the satchel get snatched away from him, and then a smooth, dry tenor voice announced  _ “I’ll _ be taking  _ that.” _

A boot carefully stepped on his back between his shoulder blades and pushed him down until he was pinned against the ground, and Arthur’s eyes flew open to try and make sense of what was happening. He peered up from the shelter of his arms and saw the blonde man smirking down at him, before turning to look down the alley and calling, “Look what I caught for ya, Dutch!”

The deep voice was back, coming closer alongside the sound of limping feet, sounding slightly strained. “ _ Ah-ha… _ Nice catch! Like a fox with a chicken!” The two exchanged chuckles, and Arthur cringed, trying his best to curl up to protect himself from the inevitable kicks or punches. “Now will you get  _ off  _ the poor boy, my dear hero?”

The boot left Arthur’s back and Arthur immediately brought his knees up to protect his stomach and ribs. He caught the blonde man passing the dark-haired one, reaching a hand out to softly caress over his shoulder and the nape of his neck, and the two murmured a brief exchange -  _ “You okay?” “M’fine” _ \- before the blonde one leaned back against the wall and slung the satchel over his own shoulder, crossing his arms to watch his friend with a soft smile.

As the dark-haired one got closer, Arthur noticed that he was also skinned up and bloody from his fall, his clothes covered in dust. Arthur clenched his fingers into his hair - his father’s hat must have fallen off when he tripped, making a spike of panic zing through his gut - and braced himself as the man gingerly kneeled down with a soft, pained noise and a laugh.

“You know, I think commendations are in order! Not everyone can make me look like such a dumbass!” Arthur blinked at the man like he was speaking a foreign language and avoided looking at his eyes. The man just beamed him a smile and held out a hand, vertical and relaxed. An offered handshake. “My name is Dutch van der Linde. A  _ pleasure  _ to meet you! Might I ask your name, feller?”

Arthur waited for the man to slap or punch him and for the warm note in his voice to become cruel, but the strike never came. Warily, he lifted his eyes to the man’s - to Dutch’s - and saw a bright brown gaze staring back at him expectantly. His face was clean-shaven and youthful and very open, the kind that invited trust. Arthur held that gaze for a long while. He thought about what it meant. Wondered what it  _ could  _ mean. No one had ever looked at him like that before, and he didn’t know what to make of it. He wondered what the trick was, where the catch was. He didn’t want to believe there was one. He was slightly scared of the possibility that there wasn’t. The rest of him ached with something deep and indescribable for the unknown that this man represented. 

Slowly, carefully, Arthur lowered his arms from his head and gingerly pushed himself up onto an elbow, where he warily put his hand into Dutch’s. Dutch grasped it, gentle, and shook it twice, his smile growing brighter. Arthur opened his mouth to try and say his name, but speaking words felt impossible. He closed his mouth with a click, but the ghost of a frustrated snarl sounded in the back of his head barking  _ Use your words, boy! _ so he opened his mouth and forced out, “Morgan. Arthur. Sir.”

Dutch glanced back at his friend with a chuckle. “He even has manners!” Looking back at Arthur, Dutch squeezed his hand again and said, “Well,  _ Morgan Arthur, _ allow me to patch you up. Also, please, don’t call me ‘Sir’ - we’re all friends here.” Dutch let go of his hand and reached for his satchel, only to find that it wasn’t there. He huffed a laugh and looked over to his friend. “Hosea, would you like to treat the wounds of this young gentleman?”

“Uh,  _ no. _ I don’t do kids.” The blonde man - Hosea - took Dutch's satchel off and flung it at his friend, who caught it easily. "You can bandage up his boo-boos yourself."

Dutch snorted. "Suit yourself, Ebeneezer." With easy, casual hands, Dutch took out a clean rag and a small flask of alcohol and set about cleaning the gravel and blood out of Arthur’s scraped hands, making him flinch and hiss. “How old are you, son?”

Arthur clenched his jaw as he glanced back and forth between the two men. “...Fourteen.”

Dutch perked up. “Well hell, you’re about the age I was when I struck out on my own! And you  _ are  _ on your own, right?” Arthur frowned and curled in on himself slightly, staring down at his lap, only to jump and hiss again when Dutch started cleaning his scratched up chin, his eyes lifting to the man’s face again. “I take that as a yes?”

_ Shit-he-hadn’t-responded-had-he? _ “Yessir!”

Dutch grimaced and huffed a laugh. “Again with the ‘Sir.’ I ain’t no ‘Sir,’ kid. Call me Dutch.” He finished cleaning Arthur’s knees through the gaping holes in his jeans, then flung the rag off to the side into a pile of alley garbage before pulling out a handkerchief and setting about cleaning his own wounds, but his eyes kept going back to Arthur, glinting with… something. “You got some real promise, Morgan, but your thievin’ skills could use some work...” He looked side-long at his friend, a slow grin growing on his face, and Arthur followed his gaze to see Hosea’s soft smile morph into a wide-eyed cringe. Dutch looked back at him. “How would you like to learn from a couple of  _ masters?” _

“Dutch,” Hosea said, voice low and quiet. A warning.

Arthur glanced rapidly between them both, but Dutch was beaming at him and saying, “Come on. You got speed, you got talent, you got smarts - we could use you watching our backs, and you could use us watching yours. What do you say? Run with us!”

_ “Dutch,” _ Hosea repeated, louder.

Arthur’s heart was pounding rapidly at the words  _ You got speed, you got talent, you got smarts. _ Dutch finished wrapping his hands and bit off the bandage from its roll with his teeth, and used his newly free hand to reach out and touch Arthur’s shoulder with a soft, warm squeeze, and Arthur’s heart leapt into his mouth. The praise and the affectionate touch made his chest feel like it was caving in.

“No more livin’ on the streets - you can see  _ America, _ son, the way it was  _ meant  _ to be! Instead of robbin’ strangers’ bags, you’ll be robbin’ from the rich, givin’ to folk who need it, righting the wrongs in this world that put you on the streets in the first place! You run with us, Morgan, and you’ll be livin’ beyond yourself.”

“Dutch, he’s just a  _ boy,” _ Hosea hissed.

Dutch finally looked at his friend. “So?”

_ “So?! _ Dutch, he- There’s a difference between bringin’ a man on and taking in a child. Hey  _ kid?” _ Arthur tensed and swallowed and met Hosea’s eyes, flinching at his tone. “You know how to shoot a gun?” Arthur shook his head. “Ride a horse?” Arthur shook his head. “You ever killed a man before?” Dutch’s expression stretched taut in a strained grimace and he shot a glare over Arthur’s head.

Arthur glanced rapidly between the two, the harsh sunlight glinting off the guns on their hips, and shuddered. He pushed himself away a couple feet from Dutch and managed, “I ain’t interested in no killin’.”

Dutch wrinkled his nose at Hosea and quickly rose placating hands at Arthur, his expression shifting back into that earnest, trustworthy one again. “We  _ ain’t  _ killers, son. We use these for  _ protection, _ that’s it. Hosea and I? We save folk as need saving, and feed folk as need feedin’.  _ That’s _ what we do. We are  _ outlaws  _ \- living free, and makin’ folk free, outside the binds of the law and ‘society.’ And it sure looks like society has shit you over.”

Arthur relaxed, but then tensed again at the sound of Hosea’s strained sigh. “Dutch… You ain’t been  _ feeling well _ lately,” he said pointedly, “and perhaps this ain’t the time to be making major life decisions. For you or anyone else.”

Dutch stuck his tongue out at Hosea. “It’s Mr. Morgan’s decision. And you look me in the eye and tell me right now you don’t trust me, if that’s how you really feel.”

Hosea clenched his jaw and crossed his arms tighter while Arthur tried to discreetly inch away. “Of course I trust you. But he joins us?  _ You’re _ the one responsible for him. And when you find out that he needs more from you than just a  _ buddy, _ when he gets sick or hurt or killed, don’t come crying to me.”

“I know when I ain’t wanted,” Arthur gruffed, pushing himself to his feet, only for Dutch to catch his hand.

“Ignore him,” Dutch drawled, rolling his head languidly towards Hosea. “He may seem like a thorny bastard, but he’s the best man I know. He’s just kinda  _ like that, _ you gotta excuse him- He’s got a chronic case of Bitch Disease, you see-” A surprised laugh wheezed out of Arthur’s chest and Dutch smiled as he pushed himself up to his feet, grasping Arthur’s shoulder again and looking down at him. “Look, son. You’re wanted. I’ve long since learned to have faith in providence-” he shot a shining smile at Hosea, who deflated “-and I think we could make a hell of a team. You got  _ potential, _ Arthur. If you decide you want us as your mentors, I think we could get a pretty good thing goin’.”

Arthur stared into Dutch’s warm brown eyes as his heart thundered in his chest and immediately figured he’d go anywhere and do anything if only the man would keep touching him and praising him and looking at him like that.

Slowly, he turned his head towards Hosea and frowned. “I… I won’t get in the way, Sir.”

Hosea’s expression had long since shuttered into a perfectly neutral mask. It remained that way as Arthur stared into his hazel eyes - unreadable - and the only response the man gave was a dull, “I’m no ‘Sir’ either.”

Dutch beamed and wrapped a warm arm around his shoulders like they were old friends, and Arthur swallowed thickly as Hosea gave him one last, long look, clenched his jaw tighter, cast his gaze down, and turned to walk away.

-~-~-

**_September, 1899_ **

†D

_ Every morning when I wake up, hardly anything feels real. _

_ So much has changed so quickly and so completely it feels like I fell into another world, like I’m Alice in Wonderland. Hell, part of me is still stuck in Blackwater. That whole damn mess started a whole other chain of messes like a string of firecrackers, and I can hardly keep my head on straight. _

_ Dutch is dead. That’s the one difference I keep coming back to.  _ ~~_ I guess I’ll be joining him soo _ __ ~~

_ We managed to get out of Saint Denis and Lemoyne only for the Pinkertons to track us down anyway, thanks to Micah, that damn  _ _ rat _ _. The gang ran north while me, Charles, and Hosea stayed back to cover them, fully prepared to die. I guess Hosea’s too good a performer, and Charles and I are too crazy, because we managed to get away. The irony is not lost on me that my fool ass got diagnosed with tuberculosis the same night. _

_ Charles joined the others up north so they don’t dig three graves while Hosea and I traveled hundreds of miles west to get to a sanatorium only to find out it’s closed, like a couple of clowns.  _

_ It looks like we’re in Denver, Colorado for the long haul since we got nowhere else to go. Nowhere where I have a chance of living, at least. Despite its sour first impression, we met a slew of decent folk here who have helped us, though Lord knows we don’t deserve it.  _

_ We seem to have befriended a doctor named James Zieglar who knew a friend who knew a cousin who knew a brother. We found a group that gives out “interest-free loans” which Hosea quickly took advantage of. Next thing I know, he’s dragging me across the city looking at houses, and we found one on the outskirts of the city, a shabby rundown thing surrounded by houses just as worn, and we’re two thousand dollars in debt for it, but it’s home. _

_ “Our house in the West.” Hosea won’t shut up about it. The first moment we stepped in after he paid for it, he couldn’t stop chanting those words and swooning all over the place. The dream we slaved towards for so many years, finally come true.  _

_ He changed his tone real quick once he actually had to start job hunting to pay it off, now that we’re both honest men. Places kept turning him away because of his age, and I reckon he was right on the brink of starting the axe murdering profession when he finally managed to join a Vaudeville theatre troupe of “female impersonators.” After wearing a dress to get here I guess he just can’t kick the habit. _

_ I feel like deadweight being confined to this bed, but Hosea won’t hear a word of me finding work or doing chores. Our whole lives we’ve joked that he’s the mother of our little group, but with it just being him and me, most days I feel like I’ll suffocate under the full power of his nursemaiding. Knowing that recovering from TB can take years, I swear, I might just take my pillow tonight and stow into his room to smoth _

The alarm clock going off next to him made his pencil jump and violently slide off the page, leaving a harsh line in its wake. Cringing and snarling, Arthur slammed his hand over the infernal thing on his nightstand and closed his journal with a groan, scrubbing his hand over his face and along his clean-shaven jaw. Every four hours, he had to drink a glass of milk because it was in one of Hosea’s damn pamphlets, and the clock beside him was meant to replace Hosea himself shoving a glass at his face whenever the man had to leave the house. At least he could hit  _ it  _ upside the head.

With a long sigh that helped deflate his frustration, Arthur took a moment to take in his bedroom. 

‘His bedroom.’ The phrase still didn’t sit right with him. Neither did ‘their house.’ It reflected in how bland and impersonal his room was - bare wood floors, bare wood walls, plain bedsheets, plain night stand, plain dresser, and that was it. The photos of his mother and of him, Hosea, and Dutch stuck out like sore thumbs from their place on and above his night-stand. He didn’t even have curtains - his windows, just like every other window and door in the whole house down to the smallest nook, had been flung wide open by Hosea within the first fifteen minutes of them moving in and had never been closed since, allowing air to freely waft and shift and stream through the house like it was a wedge of swiss cheese. Arthur’s bed was pushed flush up against one of his bedroom windows to where his head almost dangled outside the house while he slept, and he’d had multiple instances of waking up to find he’d shoved his pillow out the window to fall two stories to the ground in his sleep. 

Patting his hand on his pillow, he slowly pushed himself up with a grunt, easing himself into sitting upright from his reclining position before stopping to catch his breath. Pain ached deep and terrible in his chest, and slowly built until it manifested as harsh coughs, which Arthur rushed to catch in the crook of his sleeve. His bout lasted for roughly a minute, and when it finally passed, he felt utterly and completely drained, his breaths coming shallowly with sharp wheezes and rattles. Carefully, he reached over for his spit box with shaky hands and spat out the leftover phlegm and blood in his mouth, then frowned down at his blood-stained pajama sleeve. Setting his box back on his nightstand and closing it, he closed his eyes and hung his head, cursing the way that standing up suddenly seemed a Herculean task.

This was exactly why he’d been ordered to stay in bed save only to relieve himself and drink milk. Arthur hated it, hated knowing that he was  _ capable  _ of going out and laboring, knew that if he pushed he could function just like he used to, could pull his weight, could do his fair share, could help pay off their debt and lighten the load, but… well. Arthur read all the same pamphlets and papers Hosea did. If he wanted a surefire way to die, that would be the best way to do it.

With a heavy sigh, Arthur warily eased himself onto his feet and pushed himself up to stand. After steadying himself with careful breaths for a minute, he tucked his journal and pencil away in his nightstand and slowly padded his way into the upstairs hallway in socked feet. The only things on the second floor were his and Hosea’s bedrooms - neither of which were particularly exciting. Hosea’s room was as bare and impersonal as his, despite the man’s talk. Hosea never bothered to decorate downstairs, either.

Maybe this whole thing didn’t sit right with either of them.

Putting a hand on the stair rail, Arthur carefully made his way down the steps and into the living space, which mostly had a barebones, utilitarian setup of a kitchen, washingspace, and eating table with three chairs. After washing his hands, Arthur wandered over to a cabinet and took out a glass, then stepped up to the ice box and opened it, taking out the half-empty jug of milk to set on the table. After pouring himself a glass and returning the bottle to the ice box, he felt his lungs tickle again as he tried to carry his milk, and he hurried to set his glass down on the dining table before letting the patch of coughs out into his shoulder. With a sigh and a grumble, Arthur eased himself down into a chair and started working at the sweet beverage. Despite his harsh dislike for the analness of the ritual, Arthur couldn’t deny the soothing effects of the cold, rich, nourishing liquid. He blinked and noticed he’d already downed over half the glass. With a smirk, he licked off his milk moustache and resolved to stare out the windows at the street to watch the passersby and the birds.

It was right as he was finishing his glass that he spotted Hosea riding up to the house on the back of The Count with the day’s groceries. With a quiet noise of effort, Arthur stood again and carried his glass over to the sink, determined to at least rinse it out. He heard the front door bang open - it and its back counterpart being the only doors allowed to be closed in the house - before hearing Hosea’s heavy footsteps, shortly preceding an  _ “Ah-ah! _ What are you doing?”

Arthur rolled his eyes. “Just rinsin’ the glass, you old nag.”

“Nothing bad’s gonna happen if you let the milk sit, you  _ stubborn bastard,” _ Hosea drawled back, setting the groceries down on the kitchen worktable before ruffling his hand roughly through Arthur’s hair. Arthur swatted him away and got swatted back for his efforts, so he resignedly set the glass in the sink with a sigh and shuffled off back towards the dining table.

“So, what’s for lunch this time?” Arthur called over as Hosea started pulling out cookware, easing himself back down into his chair.

“Got us some fish, vegetables, and apples,” Hosea announced, setting to work rolling up his sleeves and washing his hands. “Think I’ll saute them in oil, try out some of those herbs I got last week. You can head back on up if you’d like, this won’t take too long.” 

Arthur snorted and drummed his hands on the table, crossing his legs. Hosea always made a point of them sharing meals together in Arthur’s bedroom, but even the short amount of time it would take for Hosea to cook seemed like it would be Hell if it was spent cooped up in that bed again. “And continue being bored outta my mind? Naw, thanks, I’m fine here.”

Hosea smirked at him as he grabbed a knife and started descaling and deboning the fish. “Eh, fine. I could do with worse company.”

Arthur watched the man carefully as he cooked, tracking every movement and every step as he multitasked between cutting the fish and heating the oil in the pans on the range. Watching Hosea cook was about the best entertainment he had in the house, really. He’d already read through all the books they owned - Hosea’s single mystery novel he’d managed to hang onto and a book on naturism that Arthur found back in Ambarino. Outside of conversing with or playing cards with Hosea, Arthur only had sketching or writing in his journal, sleeping, or falling into his thoughts. 

He really didn’t like being alone with his thoughts.

The sudden hiss of the fish hitting the pan pulled Arthur out of his head, and he blinked. Shaking his head slightly, he asked, “So where’d you learn how to cook, anyway?”

The content expression on Hosea’s face fell sharply, and Arthur furrowed his brow. After focusing on dicing the vegetables for a long moment, Hosea sighed, his expression smoothing out. “I taught myself, when I was a boy. Bessie refined my skills and taught me more later on, but I started cooking for me and my momma.”

“Are those… not… happy memories?” Arthur hedged.

Hosea shrugged. “I cooked because she wouldn’t.” He added the vegetables to their own pan and started tossing them in the oil. “Or… couldn’t.”

Arthur squinted at him. “You never really talk about your Ma.”

Hosea spared him a glance. “And there’s been a reason for it.” Arthur wilted slightly, but then Hosea heaved a sigh, his expression turning thoughtful. “I used to think that she just couldn’t be moved to give a damn. I have… vague memories of good times with her. Homemade meals she cooked, her singing songs with me, her lighting the shabbat candles… but then… well. After Grandmomma died, she… changed. Spent most of her time crying for the most part. Then she spent most of her time not really doing anything at all. She wouldn’t even get out of bed for me. Wouldn’t speak or look at me. Just got up, went to work, came back, did nothing again. I damn near starved.” Hosea frowned down at the fish. “Started fumbling around in the kitchen when I was… ten, thereabouts. Fed the two of us for years. I ended up taking care of her more than she did me. I’d pray for my Daddy to show up and spirit me away, but that never happened. Finally got fed up and left her when I turned seventeen. Struck out on the road and never looked back.”

Arthur cringed. “I… Damn. M’sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Hosea said gently. “I’m the one who’s sorry. I was too young and too stupid to understand that she wasn’t neglecting me because she didn’t give a shit. Grief… trauma… Stress, and hardship... “ He sighed and turned the fish over. “You can love someone with your whole heart, and they can love you the same right back, but sometimes that just ain’t nothing against the...  _ sickness  _ that can infect a person’s head. I learned that the hard way.” Arthur and Hosea’s eyes met for a few long seconds as the same dark memories passed through their heads. “I’m still sorry for putting you through that, son,” Hosea said, his tone heavy and quiet.

Arthur frowned against his own memories of resentment that bubbled up to the surface, back when he thought Hosea guzzling alcohol to the point of being sick despite the entire gang’s pleas to stop was because the man thought they weren’t worth trying for, even though they were all hurting over Bessie, too. After ten months of watching Hosea waste away, when Hosea had half-fallen on top of Arthur while drunkenly yelling at him to cheer up, the words  _ “Sometimes I wish you woulda stayed gone” _ slipped out of his mouth before he could stop them. Hosea had just laughed and fell over at the time, but Arthur never stopped regretting the slip. He hoped the man never remembered.

Idly tracing the whorly patterns in the wood of the dining table, Arthur sighed and looked back over at Hosea. “I’m just glad you stopped, ‘Sea.” Hosea’s expression softened at that and he turned back to the range. “Do you have anything that connects you to your Ma?”

A deep sadness settled into the lines of Hosea's face. "My dumb ass left any mementos I could have took behind. Our… religious observance stopped when Grandmomma died, so I don’t really feel part of it no more, and I haven't spoken a word of our tongue for thirty-eight years."

Arthur blinked. "Your tongue?"

"Yiddish. Momma and I spoke Yiddish around the house."

Arthur huffed and smiled. "You know  _ three languages?" _

Hosea snorted and shook his head, prepping their plates. "I said I haven't spoken a word of it for  _ thirty-eight years. _ Busted my ass learning French instead 'cause Daddy was French, but I've all but lost Yiddish."

"Can you not speak  _ any _ of it?" Arthur pressed.

Hosea carefully compiled the fish and sauteed vegetables onto their plates, then set to work cutting up their apples into fresh slices, seeming to be lost in deep thought the whole time. Eventually, he said, "I… maybe a word here or there. I think I remember… one phrase that my uncle used to say all the time. It stayed with me for some reason. Vern zol fun dir a blintshik, uh… something something… dikh khapn!"

Arthur tilted his head. "That some… wise saying or something?"

A giggle bubbled out of Hosea's throat as he finished cutting the apples. "Ha, no. It means something like 'May you turn into a blintz and get snatched by a cat!' or something like that."

The two chuckled together before Arthur asked, “The hell is a blintz?”

“Oh, God.” Hosea squinted vaguely upwards as he gathered up silverware. “It’s like a… tube-shaped pastry, looks kinda like a cigar? Like a rolled up pancake filled with cheese.”

Arthur quirked his brow up and nodded, pursing his lips in approval as Hosea brought their plates over to the dining table, setting one down in front of Arthur before sitting down with his own plate beside him. Eagerly picking up his fork, Arthur filled it up with the seasoned fish and vegetables and swiftly popped it into his mouth, grunting. He clapped Hosea on the shoulder and said through his mouthful, “Mmf, thanksh, this’s good.”

Hosea just smirked at him from where he was scarfing down his own food, then spoke through his chewing, “Where did I go wrong teashin’ you manners?”

The two snickered and fondly shook their heads.

When the fish and vegetables were gone and the two were starting in on their apple slices, Arthur gently nudged Hosea’s side with his elbow. “Do you ever think about… tryin’ to reconnect with your heritage?”

Hosea slowly lowered his apple slice from his mouth to stare pensively at it with a thoughtful hum. After a long beat, he said, “I… sometimes I do, yeah.”

Arthur side-eyed him and gestured vaguely at the outside. “This place seems to have a pretty active community. I’m sure Doc Zieglar would love to take you along to stuff.”

Hosea popped his apple slice into his mouth and gave Arthur a Look. “I ain’t gonna go run off to schmooze and consume bread and wine while you’re shut up here staring at walls.”

Arthur huffed a laugh. “Ain’t that what you do for your job?”

Hosea groaned and lowered his head to the table with a soft thud. “Don’t remind me.” Arthur guffawed, and Hosea held up a finger, lifting his head to glare at him. “So I  _ don’t  _ need even more things keeping me away from you.”

They both returned to munching on their apple slices in easy silence. When Arthur finished off the last of his apple, he turned his head towards Hosea and tentatively hedged, “What if… What if we do it together? Y’know, you take me along, or we try to…” he gestured vaguely with his hands “figure it out at home or somethin’? You could learn by teachin’ me.”

Hosea looked to be seriously considering it as he stacked their plates. “I… hmm." He carried their dishes off to dump in the sink, then walked back over to perch on the edge of the table, crossing his legs and absently drumming on his knees as he thought. Finally, he looked down and met Arthur's gaze. "...So just to be clear. You're thinking about  _ converting to Judaism?" _

"I mean…" Arthur rubbed the back of his neck. Admittedly he  _ did _ have a historic habit of getting overexcited about any part of Dutch or Hosea's pasts and jumping several guns as a result.

"I just want you to know what you're proposing here, Arthur," Hosea continued, grimacing slightly. "This ain't the religion of your average street corner preacher. It's a culture and a… it's an  _ ethnicity. _ You can't just… It ain’t just a matter of saying ‘I convert.’ Conversion carries  _ weight _ , and it’ll be a long-ass process. The end result on the other side of it would be you fundamentally changing your identity, son."

Arthur shrugged. "I ain't got much of an identity to go off of anyway. I don't know the first thing about what it means to be Welsh, 'cause my father sure as hell wasn't interested in  _ culture, _ so heh, well." He made another vague gesture. "Unless the gang counts, I ain't really got one of those either."

Hosea huffed and smiled. "So, what? You wanna take up mine?"

Arthur smiled back, tired and bittersweet. "We've been through a  _ lot _ of bullshit together, Hosea. You're more of a father to me than my own ever was. So, I reckon… if you'll have me... yeah."

Hosea got a twinkle in his eye and slowly reached out to put a heavy hand on Arthur's head, a soft and soothing weight. "We  _ have _ been through a lot together, haven't we?"

Arthur found himself leaning into that hand, huffing a laugh and patting the man’s knee as memories swam up to the surface, old and aching and almost comical in their contrast between then and now. “Some days I still can’t believe how much you’ve changed.”

Hosea gave him a wan smile as he stood up from the table. “Some days I can’t believe how much  _ you’ve _ changed,” he drawled, ruffling his hair. “Remember how little and scrawny you used to be?”

Arthur groaned and pushed himself up to his feet as Hosea took his boots off and left them by the front door. “Yeah, well - remember how scowly you used to be?”

Hosea snorted. “I’m thankful my face didn’t get stuck like that.” Hanging up his satchel on their coat-rack, he dug around in it before pulling out a book. “Now, we best be getting you back to bed young man. I even bought you a book while I was out to try and quell your incessant complaining.”

Arthur glared at him. “I’ll save it for later. I still need to get revenge on you for kicking my ass at rummy yesterday.”

Hosea smirked. “Oh, if you  _ really  _ want me to wipe the floor with you, I could go out and buy a set of dominoes, y’know.”

Arthur rolled his eyes and started trudging his way up the stairs. “Me an' Killer still beat you in that race by more than ten seconds, old man.”

He heard Hosea’s grumbling behind him and let himself smile.

-~-~-

The first night at Dutch and Hosea’s camp was… tense.

Part of Arthur still wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t walked straight into a viper’s nest, but Dutch’s warm monologuing the entire ride out of Nashville and through the countryside about a whole slew of things - about the meaning to be young and free in America, about how nations are built by the hands of new generations, about the importance of the outlaw lifestyle and other such things that Arthur couldn’t even begin to understand - settled him more and more into the feel of the man. Each passing stanza of jargon in that deep cracking voice vibrated through the man’s ribs and into Arthur’s hands where he clutched at him as they rode, and that, combined with how he kept peppering in phrases like “that’s where you come in” and “you’re like me that way” and “protégé,” made the unease in Arthur’s gut ooze and fall over like honey.

Hosea was the unknown factor. Arthur didn’t know how much of a danger the man was, didn’t know his rules, didn’t know hardly anything about him except that Dutch trusted him. Hosea had remained steadfastly unflappable riding beside them the entire journey to camp, silent and refusing to look at him all while wearing that carefully neutral mask the whole time. When they finally arrived, Dutch tossed him some jerky and crackers before grabbing the same for himself and sitting beside him, launching into a long-winded retelling of how and why he and Hosea came to Tennessee. Hosea, meanwhile, picked through the food stock like a bird before wandering off to the opposite side of camp to eat with his back to them, his legs primly crossed. Arthur kept trying to look at him as he tore through his food, barely bothering to chew, but Dutch kept saying  _ “Hey, you listening to me?” _ , prompting Arthur to snap his gaze back and tense so the man could sail off on another tangent.

When night finally fell, Dutch finally stopped for breath and clapped Arthur on the back. “What’s ours is yours,” he finished. “Now, I’ll finally leave you alone so I can bother dear Hosea. Settle in wherever - I’ll start teachin’ you how to ride in the mornin’.”

Arthur nodded mutely and then stared after him as he walked over to his horse and pulled out his bedroll before making his way over to Hosea where the man was building a fire. Dutch laid out his bedroll flush next to Hosea’s and started speaking lowly to him, only for Hosea to stand up and drag his own bedroll several feet away from Dutch’s, ignoring him to focus on the fire instead. Dutch smiled and shook his head, dragging his bed roll flush against Hosea’s again, only for the blonde to repeat the action of standing up and dragging his away several feet. 

“Aw,  _ come on,” _ Dutch whined in a dramatic drawl, dragging his bed roll over again. “Don’t be mad.”

“I’m not mad,” Hosea quipped evenly, dragging his bed roll away several feet again.

They continued the ritual as Arthur blinked owlishly at them from across the fire, Dutch eventually resorting to wrapping his arms around Hosea’s middle and hooking his chin over the man’s shoulder to sway with him, sing-songing “You know I’m right~” as Hosea stared dead-eyed out at the night with a scowl. Once it was clear Hosea would continue to ignore him, Dutch snorted and punched Hosea in the shoulder, drawling “I wasn’t gonna sleep tonight anyways” before grabbing his satchel and walking off to the outskirts of the firelight, where he began pacing. Hosea in turn finally settled down into his bedroll and turned to face away from Arthur. 

Arthur squinted and glanced back and forth between them both. What he just witnessed made… no sense, and he quickly came to the conclusion that Dutch and Hosea were two of the most confusing men he’d ever come across. Hosea also continued to be almost impossible to predict - most men he’d seen, even men disinclined towards violence, would have punched Dutch not even ten seconds into the antics he had pulled on Hosea, but Hosea hadn’t even tensed a muscle. It went against all the parts of Arthur that suspected Hosea was a violent man, but then again, perhaps Dutch had a special exemption, given the soft touch Hosea had given him in that alley. It left Arthur right back on square one, feeling like he was walking on eggshells, never sure if the man would explode. 

With a sharp huff out of his nose, Arthur stood up and picked his way over to where Hosea was trying to sleep, squatted down, rested his hands on his knees, and stared at him.

After a long thirty seconds dragged by, Hosea tilted his head back and peeked an eye open, quirking a critical eyebrow as his mouth stayed in the same noncommittal scowl as before. Arthur blinked at him. After a long few seconds of staring at each other, Hosea let out a long, slow, almost pained sigh and turned his head away, closing his eye again and settling deeper into his bedroll.

“You don’t like me,” Arthur stated.

“I think you’re fine,” Hosea replied, flat.

Arthur squinted again. “Are you sure?”

“Yup.”

“...Why?”

“Go to sleep, kid.”

Arthur hesitated, then poked him. Hosea ignored him, so he poked the man in a different spot. Hosea still ignored him. 

Dutch’s voice called over from the shadows, “He’s ticklish in the crook of his neck!”

Hosea's eyes snapped open, already narrowed. "I'm sleeping in a hotel." And with that, Hosea dragged himself out of his bedroll and made to start rolling it up.

"There ain't no need for that," Dutch drawled, stepping closer. He looked at Arthur and made a shooing motion with his hand. "Now leave the poor man alone, Arthur. I've given him Hell enough recently."

Arthur eyed them both warily, then reluctantly slinked off back to his old spot to curl up next to the fire. Hosea burrowed himself deep under his cover and Dutch continued to pace around the perimeter of camp.

None of them slept that night.

The days and weeks that followed mostly consisted of a chaotic haze of Dutch struggling to teach Arthur a myriad of skills, Hosea leaving to hunt or scope places out at every opportunity, and Arthur doing his best to figure out the rules of both by seeing where their breaking points were. 

Testing Dutch didn’t turn out to be all that hard - the man kept using so much abstract and flowery language to explain how to do something that Arthur genuinely had no idea what the man wanted him to do most times, resulting in him whining "What does that even  _ mean?" _ more often than not, to which Dutch would just huff  _ “What _ ain’t you  _ getting, _ son?! Here-” and demonstrate whatever he was trying to teach. Arthur learned far better watching Dutch than listening to him, and also learned that, while prone to impatience and frustration, the man resorted to taking things over or declaring that they needed a break rather than trying to beat in the lesson, going off to one side of camp to smoke a cigarette and pace if he ever got too fed up with Arthur purposefully doing things wrong or talking back. Arthur, for his part, would lurk around the other side scuffing rocks with his boot and biting his lip to hold back tears. The man's disappointment and frustration stung bitterly, and Arthur quickly switched back to trying to do everything in his power to perfectly complete the tasks assigned him - earning beaming smiles and brays of "Good work, son!" or "See? You got it!" that made his heart spin.

Testing Hosea was more difficult. As the days passed, Arthur tried a myriad of things - staring at him, standing too close to him, putting dirt in his boots, stealing his food and his things, even putting a frog in his bed roll at one point. Hosea would pull a myriad of faces at him, most of them variations of squints and scowls, before wordlessly walking away or calling Dutch over in a clipped, unamused tone. Dutch thought Arthur’s antics were hilarious, but indulged Hosea by squeezing Arthur’s shoulder and warmly asking him to leave Hosea alone. 

Dutch also started up a campaign of tugging on Hosea’s belt-loops and bumping their shoulders together when night fell, talking soft and quiet, which eventually made Hosea soften his expression and allow Dutch to sleep next to him again. Arthur did not like this development - it meant he couldn’t mess with Hosea as he slept.

He quickly found a new opportunity through Dutch sending him out alone with Hosea to scout out a convention center, however, with a quip of  _ “You ain’t gotta hold his hand, ‘Sea. Just treat him like part of the team.” _ This apparently manifested as Hosea taking him out to buy clothes.

“Why you takin’ me  _ shopping?” _ Arthur whined as Hosea walked towards a general store, walking on tip-toe behind the man.

Hosea side-eyed him, still wearing one of his scowls. “You stick out like a sore thumb in those rags, and they make you smell like a sewer rat. I’m not staking out a building for five hours with you smelling like that.”

“What, you gonna make me take a bath too?” Arthur shot back. 

“Yes, actually,” Hosea said, flat. “Dutch apparently hasn’t found it necessary, but if we’re going to be working together, kid, I’m not gonna breathe your filth. Now here.” As they entered the general store door, Hosea dug into his satchel and handed Arthur thirty dollars. “Get yourself an outfit. I’m gonna buy some food.”

Arthur’s eyes widened at the money and he looked up at Hosea, gaping like a fish. A  _ Thank you Sir _ queued up in his mouth, but he snapped it shut before he could voice it. Instead, he forced out a “Whatever.”

Hosea didn’t even blink at the lip - just wandered off towards the canned fruit.

Awkwardly, Arthur wandered over to the general store clerk and asked if he could buy an outfit. The clerk, a portly man with a ginger handlebar moustache, looked him up and down and gave him a gentle smile before pushing over the store catalogue and opening it to the ‘junior clothing’ section for him. The man shot a judgemental glare at Hosea when he thought Arthur wasn’t looking.

“That one,” Arthur announced, pointing out the first outfit in budget that looked like something he’d like to wear.

The clerk nodded approvingly. “A fine choice! I’ll go grab one from the back and show you to the fitting room, so you can make sure it fits.”

A couple minutes later, the clerk showed Arthur into a little closet-like room with a full-length mirror. As the clerk laid the outfit parcel down on a chair, Arthur immediately got to work unbuttoning and shrugging off his shirt, chirping a “Thank you, Mister.”

The clerk looked up at him and opened his mouth to reply, then - froze, staring at the mirror behind him with a horrified expression. Arthur whirled around to look behind him, but only saw his own reflection. “What?”

“Nothing. Nothing, son, it’s fine,” the clerk replied, strained. “You… you try that outfit on, and if it fits you can have it for free, yeah?”

Arthur gave the man a funny look. “O...kay?”

Without another word, the clerk quickly ducked out and shut the door behind him. 

Arthur only managed to get the new pants on before he heard the clerk’s yell come through the door.

_ “You should be ashamed of yourself!” _

Hosea’s voice, far quieter and more muffled.  _ “Excuse me?” _

_ “Doing that to a boy? There ain’t nothing he coulda done to deserve that!” _

_ “I don’t know what you’re talkin’ about, fella.” _

Arthur quickly padded over to the door in socked feet and cracked it open to hear better.

The clerk’s sharp yell again. “The marks on his back? What kind of father does that to his own son?”

Arthur blanched.

“I’m not his father,” Hosea said immediately. “I’m his uncle. And what do you mean? What marks?”

There was a long beat of silence. Finally, the clerk’s voice came once more, quiet and apologetic. “Good heavens, you don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“...Before you return the boy to his father, Sir, I beg you to check his back.”

There was a long beat. “Duly noted.”

Arthur shut the door again with a quiet click, trembling and fighting off a wave of nausea as he felt his father’s breath ghost over the back of his neck.

Ten minutes later, he was back outside, wearing his new outfit and following Hosea back to his horse, an elderly palomino gelding named Vinegar with a personality just as sour. Hosea hadn’t acted any different towards him when Arthur had stepped out from the back, wearing the same neutral expression as always, although his eyes  _ had  _ glanced him over more than once. Neither of them said anything to each other as Hosea mounted up on Vinegar and reached a hand down to help Arthur up behind the saddle, nor for the entire ride to the nearest hotel with bath services. Arthur numbly followed along behind the man as they dismounted, hitched, and walked through the doors, feeling like he was in two places at once as Hosea paid for a bath at the front desk. He continued numbly walking behind Hosea until they were in a back alcove of the hotel, in front of a door that read ‘bath.’ Arthur automatically walked in, eager to wash off the caked sweat and sensations of sharp stings and burns on his skin, then stopped and stiffened when he felt Hosea follow him inside.

Arthur quickly turned around and pressed his back against the wall. “I don’t want no funny business.”

Hosea didn’t move any closer - simply closed the door behind him and knelt down on one knee to where he was slightly below Arthur’s eye level, his movements slow and steady and telegraphed. His scowl was gone, replaced by careful blankness. His voice was quiet and almost a monotone as he said, “Don’t play dumb, kid. I know you heard the clerk back there. Let me see your back.”

Arthur wanted to say no, but an old echoing snarl snapped  _ Turn around, boy! _

Biting his lip and trembling, Arthur turned around and started unbuttoning his vest and his shirt, wrinkling his nose and ducking his head in shame. Warily, he shrugged off the fabric and let it fall to the floor before immediately crossing his arms over his chest.

The only reaction he heard from Hosea was the man’s breath hitch slightly at the sight Arthur  _ knew  _ he saw - old criss-cross scars from his father’s belt and tiny round burn scars from cigarettes on the nape of his neck. Arthur peeked over his shoulder and saw Hosea’s eyes slowly growing darker and darker as they kept staring at his scars, narrowing more and more with each passing second as the man clenched his jaw.

“...Who did this to you?” Hosea asked, voice low and dangerous and very, very quiet.

Arthur tucked his elbows into his sides and rapidly started moving his hands over each other - overunderthrough, overunderthrough. “My Pa.”

There was a long beat of silence. “Is your Pa still alive?”

Overunderthrough, overunderthrough. “They hanged him two years ago.”

He heard Hosea take in a slow breath, then slowly let it out. He risked peeking again, and the man was wearing that same old scowl, although the darkness was gone from his eyes, replaced by something unreadable. Hosea met his gaze and Arthur flicked his eyes down.

“...Dutch and I would never,  _ ever, _ do anything like that to you. Do you understand?” Hosea said, his voice more gentle than Arthur had ever heard it.

Arthur shrugged. “Sure.”

“All right then.” Hosea stood up again. “Take your time with the bath, I’ll be outside somewhere, we’ll head for the convention center as soon as you’re done,” he said quickly, and then he was out the door before he was even done with his sentence, shutting it behind him.

As soon as they returned to camp that evening, Hosea had pulled Dutch aside and spoke softly to him in private, and Arthur watched as Dutch looked over at him in shock before glaring off into the distance with a dark sneer. Arthur scowled furiously at the ground and scuffed deep lines into the dirt with his new boots, waiting for Dutch to come over with pity in his eyes and say he wasn’t a good fit for them after all. When Dutch finally did come over, however, it was with a determined expression as he gently knocked his hand against Arthur’s shoulder and said “I reckon I oughta teach you how to fistfight. You wanna show me how you throw a punch?”

Arthur’s time with Dutch and Hosea was considerably less tense after that. Arthur couldn’t name a specific time when it happened, but at some point, his brain had filed both Dutch and Hosea away as “safe.” He and Dutch grew closer with each passing day as Dutch continued to teach him everything he knew, and Hosea, while still never seeking Arthur out or particularly interacting with him at all outside of jobs, didn’t move away if Arthur sat or stood close to him and even talked to him if Arthur talked first. Arthur, in turn, stopped messing with them both quite so much, slowly growing to trust them at their word that they would never hurt him. 

They settled into a tentative peace - Arthur and Dutch, and Dutch and Hosea; Dutch happily forming a bridge between the two, and Arthur and Hosea content to leave it that way.

-~-~-

“This the place?”

Hosea huffed a laugh. “Well, all the horses and wagons out front sure suggest it is.”

Arthur grinned. “Fair enough.”

After hitching The Count and Killer to Doctor Zieglar’s fence - and after Arthur rubbed down Killer’s face and neck and fed him an apple, cooing  _ “My boy” _ \- they stepped up onto the porch of the Zieglar home and knocked on the door. There were the sounds of many people gently talking and laughing inside, and from amongst the din they heard the sound of steady footsteps approaching the door. It opened a crack to reveal a brown eye peering outside, which immediately relaxed at the sight of them. 

The door opened fully to reveal Doctor Zieglar - a slightly chubby man with a balding head of snow-white hair and a well-groomed salt-and-pepper beard. His face was chronically droopy in a way that almost made him look sad, like a bloodhound, although Arthur was convinced that his face truly was just stuck that way.

“Mordechai, Arthur,” Doc Zieglar greeted quietly. Arthur was also convinced it was impossible for the man to raise his voice. “Please, come in. How’s your hand and your head doing?”

Carefully stepping inside and slipping off their boots to join the chaotic smattering of other folks’, Arthur replied “Healing up good, Doc” as he and Hosea made their way through the hallway and into the dining room, which held a long table full of pale and sickly looking folk smiling and genially talking amongst each other. It was about as much as Arthur expected when he’d first heard that Doc Zieglar was planning to host a layman Rosh Hashanah meal and service at his home for the still-able members of his Reform congregation who had TB and couldn’t go to the synagogue. There couldn’t have been more than seven people around the table, and most seemed to be around his age, save for one elderly woman and a teenage girl.

“Hello, everyone,” Doctor Zieglar announced as they hovered in the doorway, making the conversation lull for a moment. “This is my friend, Mordechai Jones. He’s returning to our community after a while away, and this is his son, Arthur Jones. Arthur here is a prospective convert, so go easy on him.” The group brightened and smiled at them both with jovial waves, save for a couple who coughed gently into their sleeves. One of them - a black man with exhausted eyes and a full head of hair tied back in a bun - gestured Arthur over to sit in the empty chair next to him, which Arthur shyly obliged. “Please make them feel at home, and enjoy the meal. Mordechai? Would you like to eat with me and the other family members in the living room?”

Hosea and Arthur exchanged a brief look, and Arthur shooed the man away with a smirk. Hosea huffed in amusement, then clapped Doc Zieglar on the shoulder. “Sure, friend.”

Doctor Zieglar led Hosea off, which left Arthur with the seven other people around the dinner table - all of whom had tuberculosis. The knowledge was oddly comforting.

“My name is Samuel Bennett,” the man who invited Arthur over greeted, holding out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Arthur.”

Arthur smiled warmly at him and took his hand, shaking it. He tried not to let his exhaustion show on his face, although half the table looked liable to drop dead at any moment. “Nice to meet you, Samuel. A pleasure.”

A woman with long brown wavy hair and stress lines etched deep into her sunken face leaned forward and pressed an anxious hand on the table. “So you’re hoping to convert?”

Most of the folk around the table looked politely at Arthur, who rubbed the back of his neck. “I mean… Yeah. I suppose I am.”

Samuel patted Arthur on the shoulder. “I was once a convert too. It’s definitely awkward at first, but the folk here are good and caring, and it’s so rewardi-...” Samuel paused to catch his breath, raising a handkerchief in front of his mouth to cough into it a few times.

“You picked a good time for it,” said the wavy-haired woman, glancing at Samuel empathetically. “The High Holy Days are a beautiful introduction.”

The elderly woman piped up from her spot at the head of the table to say, “You couldn’t have picked a more complicated time to start and observe, sonny. Don’t get too overwhelmed now, y’hear?”

A pale man with short black hair and blue eyes leaned forward on his elbows and shot Arthur a smile. “What made you want to convert, anyway?”

Arthur shifted uncomfortably. “Well, my fa-”

“Food’s ready!” called Mrs. Zieglar.

Things swiftly descended into a haze of food being laid out on the table and plates being filled. Before anyone made any move to eat, however, Mrs. Zieglar - a short chubby woman with a snow-white pony-tail - reverently set down two loaves of circular-shaped bread and two bottles of grape juice (“No wine for you all, doctor’s orders!”) and guided them all through two blessings in a language Arthur didn’t understand. Once the blessings were finished, everyone picked up their utensils or used their hands and began to eat - biting into a colorful assortment of apples and honey, multiple whole cooked fish (including the heads), oven-baked potatoes, chicken soup, roasted broccoli, honey cake, and the circular bread named  _ challah  _ \- with honey for dipping. 

Samuel quickly proved to be a friend when it came to explaining the traditions of a Rosh Hashanah meal and what different things symbolized. For instance, the fish heads were tied to how Rosh Hashanah translated to ‘Head of the Year’, the apples and honey were meant to symbolize a sweet and positive upcoming year, and the round shape of the challah was meant to symbolize continuity. 

The entire process of seeing in the Jewish New Year, as many folk around the table happily explained to Arthur, started with Rosh Hashanah - the anniversary of the day the universe was created - and lasted for ten days, ending on the very somber Yom Kippur, or ‘Day of Atonement.’ The entire period, or ‘the High Holy Days’, were meant to be a period of serious self-reflection and penitence for the wrongs one committed (and later those of all humanity), done so under the attention of God as He opened the Book of Life on Rosh Hashanah and then closed it on Yom Kippur, sealing their fates for the new year. Or… something like that.

It was all very abstract for Arthur - something that made him struggle - but the grave earnestness and sincerity that people placed in the importance of reflecting on one’s life and of atoning for the harm and pain they inflicted on the world resonated with him in a way that made his throat close up, and not from coughing.

“Do you ever think…” began the blue-eyed man - Henry, his name was - off to one side of the table as he idly picked at his fish with his fork, “...think about how this might…. be our last new year? Our last chance to… to atone for what we did? To make things right?”

The air around the table became very grave, and very heavy.

The wavy-haired woman, Ruth, swallowed her mouthful of chicken soup and frowned. “All the time.”

Samuel opened his mouth and said something, but Arthur couldn’t quite hear him. His eyes unfocused as he stared down at the table-cloth, idly rubbing his fingers over and through each other as a long procession of images waltzed behind his eyes. That foreign man who didn’t know how to speak English, pleading and crying and begging desperately as Arthur took everything he had. That young boy in Lemoyne, hiding and quivering under his bed after Arthur killed his father in his own house, shakily pointing out the money to him, looking at him like he was a monster made manifest. The other man who was killed by that cougar in a desperate attempt to pay Arthur back, his agonized scream ringing through the cave. That man who tried to fistfight Arthur only to have his life get snapped out of his eyes when Arthur’s fist slammed into his skull too hard,  _ too hard, _ and snapped his neck.

Mrs. Downes and her son, caked in filth, looking at him like he was the Devil himself.

All them lives. All them lives destroyed in his wake, and for what? 

Money.

Money that just got consumed in fire anyway, the gang scattered to the wind.

_ All them lives  _ lost, cut short by Arthur's hands, snuffed out before their time, for  **_nothing._ **

"Arthur? You okay?"

Arthur looked up at the group around the table, staring at him in earnest concern that made him feel nauseous, made him feel sick, made his skin crawl away from them. These were people -  _ good people _ \- who had no idea what he was, the  _ things _ he'd done. He felt like a wolf in a sheep pen. He felt diseased, dirty,  _ sick, _ liable to taint all these good people in a way tuberculosis never could if he didn't beat them or shoot them first like the animal he was. He had no place being amongst them. He had no place feasting and laughing alongside them when Thomas Downes was dead and cold in the ground. 

"This was a mistake," Arthur said quietly, dropping the honey-covered apple slice in his hand like it scalded him, his voice quiet and strangled as he rose from the table. 

“Arthur, what-” Samuel started.

Ruth stiffened and reached out for him. “Whoa, hey, fella-”

Arthur brushed past them both and ignored the concerned looks and outstretched hands from the others to breeze through the hallway, through the kitchen, and out the Zieglars’ back door to stagger into their yard, breathing quick and strained and heavy, causing agony to bloom in his lungs and rake claws all the way up and out of his throat in the form of horrible, wet, shaking, quaking coughs.

Coughs.

He was coughing.

Punch. 

He’d been  _ coughing. _

Punch.

_ My husband isn’t well! _

_ Like I said, we ain’t nobody’s idea of charity. _

“Mr. Jones?”

All for  _ nothing. _

Hosea’s voice. “Arthur?!”

Arthur blinked and looked up to see the worried faces of Doctor Zieglar and Hosea. A sudden violent lightning bolt of shame flashed through his gut and he cast his gaze down, hacking out a glop of blood into the grass that made Doctor Zieglar cringe and run into the house.

“Dammit-” Hosea’s voice was saying “-I  _ knew  _ this was too soon, I shouldn't have listened to Zieglar when he said we could come here, I’m sorry dear boy, let’s get you home-”

Arthur cringed away from his touch on his shoulders and Hosea’s hands wilted.

Doctor Zieglar was suddenly back in front of him with an odd contraption in his hands. “Here, Mr. Jones, put this in your mouth.” Arthur automatically put his mouth around a strange glass mouthpiece. “Now when you squeeze this, take a long inhale, hold it, then slowly exhale out your nose.”

Arthur’s hand was guided to what appeared to be a bag of air. Absently, he did as he was told, desperately sucking in as deep a breath he could while squeezing the bag, which puffed a spray of liquid droplets into the back of his throat. Arthur pulled his mouth off the mouthpiece and did his best to hold his breath, feeling the pain in his lungs numb slightly, then slowly exhaled out his nose with a couple of weak coughs.

“It’s a pulverisateur,” Doctor Zieglar explained gently. “It soothes coughing and helps the breath. You go ahead and take it home with you, it’s best you rest now.”

Arthur struggled to find the strength to speak, but found he couldn’t. His head and his heart felt numb and empty, his entire existence narrowed down to the slow drag of air in and out of his lungs and the blade-scrape of pain it brought with it.

Hosea leaned into his vision and asked, “Arthur? Can I touch you?”

Arthur continued to simply breathe for a long moment. Hesitantly, he nodded his head, and Hosea firmly grasped his shoulder. “Do you think you can stand, son?”

The thought made all of his limbs feel like they weighed several tons. He shook his head.

“All right,” Hosea said easily. “You good if some of these kind folk help me move you?”

Arthur nodded.

Everything faded away into a blur, his vision fading in and out as he faintly recognized Hosea’s presence at his side along with a figure which must have been Doctor Zieglar on his other, carrying him through the yard. There was talking, a mix of voices, a slur of words - someone offering their wagon - and then the rattling of wood, hushed whispers, hands on him and walking him above the ground, flashes of their house and its bare impersonal walls, his room, his plain bed. His room was full of people, and then it wasn’t. Hosea was there, but then he wasn’t. Milk or soup was being coaxed down his mouth, but then he was waking up from sleep. It was dark outside, but then it wasn’t.

Arthur blinked, then blinked again, staring up at the ceiling which slowly swam into focus. The gentle warm breeze from outside blew through his hair and cooled his sweat, making the cold compress on his forehead even colder. The rattle in his chest seemed compounded, somehow, layered over a dry whistle. His gaze slowly, sluggishly fell to his side, and he quickly resolved his confusion - Hosea sat at his bedside in a pulled-up chair, slumped forward against the mattress, his sleeves rolled up past his elbows as he rested his head in the pillow of his folded arms, sleeping uneasily with strained rasping breaths.

Guilt settled low and bitter in Arthur’s stomach, and he reached out a hand to prod at Hosea’s head. “‘Sea.”

Hosea jerked awake with a gasp and blinked blearily at him, then heaved a sigh of relief, grasping a warm hand around Arthur’s arm and smiling. “Arthur! Hey, son! How are you feeling?” he croaked. The circles under his eyes were dark and harsh, and Arthur’s frown sank further.

“M’sorry,” Arthur murmured.

Hosea blinked and shook his head. “What for?”

Arthur slowly wet his lips, then turned his gaze away. He couldn’t look the man in the eye. The words queued up in his mouth were old and worn, but true. “I ruined everything.”

The words that came out of Hosea’s mouth were also old and worn. “My boy, you did not,” he said tiredly.

“‘Sea,” Arthur said quietly. “I don’t… deserve… to be happy.”

Hosea was silent for a long moment. “...This ain’t about your fit at the dinner, now, is it.”

“Not… all of it.” Arthur’s expression grew pinched. “I can’t… pretend to waltz around with folk like that and feast and laugh and… Not after… Not after all the things that I’ve done. Not the way I got… that I got sick…” 

Hosea took in a long breath, then slowly eased it out, the whistle in his lungs growing quiet as a breeze whispered in through the window, easing through their hair as it passed through the house. Hosea tightened his hold on Arthur’s arm, and Arthur looked over to his face and the great sadness held in his eyes as the man gently said, “You don’t deserve to flagellate yourself for all eternity, Arthur, just like you don’t deserve to die for what you’ve done. You’re allowed to- to eat good food and laugh and make friends. You’re allowed t-”

“Hosea,” Arthur pressed, moving his hand to wrap around the man’s elbow. “We’re, what? Two grand in debt?”

Hosea narrowed his eyes suspiciously. “Yes, and it’s fine.”

Arthur clenched his jaw for a long few seconds. “You look me in the eye. You look me in the eye and you tell me - what would you do if some big dumb brute came into our house one day and beat the ever-loving shit outta me while you were gone ‘causa that debt? Huh?” His voice raised, growing brittle and splintered.  _ “You look me in the eye _ Hosea and you  _ tell me, _ what would you  _ do?” _

Silence reigned in the room, absolute, heavy, and deafening.

Hosea’s eyes were dark and wet as they stared at the mattress, his hand white-knuckled on Arthur’s arm. 

Finally, Hosea confessed, voice barely above a whisper, “I would stop at nothing until he was dead.”

Arthur blinked against the wetness in his own eyes and crumpled. “Then why don’t I deserve the same?” he asked, his voice broken.

Hosea lifted his gaze to him, his eyes glistening with a wariness that went deeper than bone. Slowly, reverently, Hosea reached his hand out and picked up the cold compress to dab and caress it along Arthur’s brow in long, smooth strokes. “It ain’t about deserve,” he said quietly, yet his voice was smooth, deep, and absolute. “It’s about what the hell you’re gonna do about it.” He met Arthur’s eyes, and there was steel laced in the grayish amber. “The folk we’ve hurt will always want to hurt us right back. If we took an eye, they’ll want an eye right back. But that ain’t justice. Dutch…” A sharp pain flickered through the old man’s expression. “Dutch preached that revenge was a fool’s game for a reason, son. A loss for a loss just results in two losses. Rips two things away from the world, and makes it all the lesser. You are not what you’ve done, Arthur. Your past don’t define you.  _ You define yourself. _ You decide who you are, and you make your decisions to abide by that, to build your future around it.”

“But you said…” Arthur shook his head. “You said you wouldn’t stop at nothing. That you’d kill him. And Dutch, he… Near the end... He went for the eyes.”

“I know what I said,” Hosea said forcefully, raising his hand to cup Arthur’s jaw. “And I know what Dutch became,” he said, quieter. “And I want you to be better than us. To be better than  _ me.” _

Arthur stared at him, his eyes slowly widening as a muscle in his face ticced. He opened and closed his jaw for a few times, then managed, “You never walked into people’s homes and murdered defenseless folk for money, ‘Sea.”

Hosea ran a careful thumb over Arthur’s eyebrow, a deep and aching shadow settling into the lines on his face. “Are you forgetting the things I was doin’ before I met Dutch, Arthur?”

“You only killed in self-defense,” Arthur pressed.

Hosea locked eyes with him. “Not always.” At Arthur’s wide-eyed, disbelieving look, he lowered his gaze. “I was a bit of a master at indirectly destroying folks’ lives, son. Many of ‘em ended up dead. And none of ‘em deserved it.”

Arthur blinked at him, easing out a breath he hadn’t known he’d been holding. His hand tightened around Hosea’s elbow. “Well then… What about you?” he asked, quietly. “How did you come back from that? What… what made you…” The haunting image of the man broken and crying back on that homestead passed through his mind like a malevolent ghost. “How did you… How did you come back from the… Th-the guilt? The regret?”

Hosea was looking up at him again, his eyes soft and shining with something indescribable. “I didn’t. I struggle with it every day. But I know how I define myself. And I know what I want my future to be.”

Arthur squinted at him. “And what is that?”

Slowly, with a few sharp snaps of his joints that produced a pained wince, Hosea stood from his chair and carefully removed Arthur’s compress, setting it aside on the bowl of water on his night-stand. With tender reverence, Hosea leaned down and pressed a kiss to the cold, clammy skin of Arthur’s forehead before leaning back to meet his eyes with a soft, loving smile. “Bringing you up is the best thing I’ve ever done. You make me want to wake up in the morning. To try and be better, and do better. You’re the best part of me, Arthur. You’re my happiness.” He carefully brushed his fingers through Arthur’s hair. “And you’re  _ allowed to be happy.” _

Arthur stared at him, speechless. His bottom lip quivered once. Twice. Then he smiled an incredulous smile and gently shook his head, blinking back the wetness in his eyes again. “By God, you’re a sap.”

Hosea thumbed his nose. “You made me this way,” he chided with a grin, then stood up with a few more cracks and winces. “I’m gonna…” he steadied himself a moment and took a deep breath, rolling his neck to produce another crack. “I’m gonna  _ not sleep in a chair again,  _ and I’m also gonna get you a glass of milk and cook us up some breakfast, hm?”

Arthur chuckled gently and grinned. “Sounds good, Hosea.”

Hosea grinned back at him and patted his arm before walking away, then... paused in the doorway, turning back to look over his shoulder. “You’re allowed to be happy, son,” he repeated, soft and quiet.

Arthur’s eyes crinkled. “I’m gonna try and believe that. That’s all I can promise.”

“Then that’s all I can ask for.” And with that, Hosea slowly left the room and made his way into the upstairs hallway, and a few seconds later Arthur heard the sound of his socked feet carefully making their way down the stairs.

Arthur allowed himself to think back to Edith Downes and her son. Hugging each other like they were each other’s brightest lights in the world after Arthur brought Edith back from almost letting herself get killed. Ever since he saw Dutch sacrifice himself, ever since he was forced to watch him die so horribly and so slow, flanked by the tortured screams of Hosea and John, it’d been like the whole of reality had shattered and a great curtain was ripped away from his life and everything they’d been doing for years, all the delusions and fantasies they’d wrapped themselves up in being washed away by the very blood of the man who’d spun them. The death of Dutch had been a wake up call. Had made him stop. Think.  _ Hurt. _ Deep and terrible and all-encompassing. So when he saw Edith Downes in Annesburg, when he saw her and Thomas’s boy, he knew, even before his life had been put on an ambiguous timer, that he had to try and save them. Not out of any selfish drive for forgiveness or absolvement, but because he was filled with a desperate need to see them  _ make it. _ To know that they could beat the world, escape its darkest shadows, shadows which took their husband and father from them - the shadow of himself. To know that they could make it and not only survive, but  _ thrive  _ after such a terrible and identity-shattering loss.

Numbly, Arthur found his hand reaching over to the wall above his night-stand and carefully removing a pin. The photo fell easily into his hand as he set the pin aside, and slowly, with his hand trembling slightly, Arthur brought the photo in front of his face and flipped it over.

Dutch’s soft, quietly proud expression and gentle loving eyes stared back at him. He followed the man’s arm down to his hand wrapped around Arthur’s own shoulder, attached to his fifteen-year-old self, holding a cigarette and glowering down at the floor even as he leaned into Dutch’s hand. He looked to the side and - he smiled and softly snorted a laugh - there sat Hosea, with one of his old classic neutral scowls. 

He remembered them taking that portrait. Dutch had been so excited, insisting that they do it as a way to celebrate Arthur’s mastery of marksmanship, having finally quick-drew and shot down six bottles in less than two seconds. He’d been talking big about how, as soon as winter blew over, they’d take Arthur with them on his first robbery, rather than just low-risk con jobs - how he was becoming a man, a full member of their ‘little gang.’

Hosea hadn’t really said much at all about any of it. He hadn’t even changed out of his rugged everyday clothes for the portrait, even as Dutch and Arthur had dressed in their best outfits and cleanest boots. 

Arthur gingerly brushed his fingers beside both Dutch and Hosea’s faces. The incident that happened only two weeks after they took that picture had changed  _ everything, _ and as Arthur’s eyes finally settled on Hosea’s thirty-four-year-old face, he smiled a bittersweet smile and remembered.

-~-~-

Despite the Tennessee winter having been fairly mild, they still decided it was best to move further out into the country to try and find an abandoned house to squat in as shelter from the cold nights and the rain. The end of December and beginning of January had brought with them a slew of winter rainstorms which seemed to constantly keep the skies a washed-out gray, draining the color from their surroundings, making Arthur’s nerves trigger-raw and causing him to jump at his own shadow. The first night a storm properly rolled through, shaking the rundown shack they were sleeping in with thunder and pelting its roof with rain, Arthur had curled himself up into as tight of a ball as he could, biting his fist to stifle the sounds of his crying as his brain forced him to relive every stormy night his father would get drunk. When his father got drunk, the rules stopped making sense, and the punishments stopped making sense, becoming crueler and harsher with unchecked strength. Arthur tried his best to be good, to listen, to predict what his father wanted him to do or wanted him to say, but nothing ever seemed good enough.

A particularly loud clap of thunder made him think he’d been struck, and a whimper had slipped out of his throat. Seconds later, Hosea had steadied his feet against Dutch’s side and jettisoned the man out of their shared bedrolls from where they’d been sleeping to roll across the floor towards Arthur. Dutch had yelped, sat up, and grumbled a few insults at the Hosea-shaped blanket lump before he sleepily shuffled over to sit beside Arthur and drawled, “It’s just a storm, son. Ain’t nothin’ to be afraid of.”

Arthur had swallowed thickly, then flinched and shielded his head when another clap of thunder shook the shack. 

“Seriously, Arthur, this is little kid stuff, I’d expect you to be past this,” Dutch huffed.

That had just made Arthur twist his fingers into and yank harshly at his hair, the tears finally overflowing from his eyes as the sting of Dutch’s disappointment hit him harsher than any phantom strike, and he hurried to bury his face even deeper in his arms to hide his tears.  _ Boys don’t fucking cry. _ “M’sorry Sir,” he’d ground out, doing everything in his power to keep his voice deep and manly and not quiver or break.

Dutch had stilled and gone quiet at the  _ Sir, _ frowning down at Arthur in the dark. “Is this uh… a ‘your father,’ thing?”

Arthur didn’t answer. Just flinched again when thunder rolled.

“Uh,” Dutch said awkwardly. “Hmm… Uh… Here.” He crawled across the floor and grabbed his bed roll, then dragged it away from Hosea until it was laid beside Arthur. “I’ll sleep next to  _ you  _ tonight. Ain’t no one gonna get past me to hurt ya, a’ight? So there. Now you can sleep.”

Arthur peeked out from under his arms and watched as Dutch unraveled his blanket from where Hosea had stolen it, gently smacking the blonde on the hip for his trouble only to get smacked on the thigh in retaliation, before fwumping down on his bed roll beside Arthur with a deep rumbling sigh, settling onto his back to sleep. 

Thunder cracked once more and Arthur flashed a hand out to grasp Dutch’s arm. He felt the man instantly stiffen in a cringe, so he flinched his hand back to twist into his hair again. After only a few seconds, Dutch’s big meaty hand reached over and took his smaller, thinner one from his hair and returned it to his arm with a couple light, awkward pats.

Dutch had slept with him every night for weeks after that, and Arthur slept more soundly than he ever had in his life.

Until, of course, Dutch said he was going out alone to meet with some contacts to get some information concerning rumors that a human-sacrificing cult lived in the forested hills just to the north atop a literal gold mine. Hosea hadn’t liked him going out alone one bit, and Arthur hadn’t either, but Dutch waved them both off and said it was a simple boring rendezvous and he’d be back by morning at the latest.

That’d been three days ago.

Neither Arthur nor Hosea slept much.

The strained, uneasy tension that hung in the air in that shack between him and Hosea was so thick one could’ve cut it with a knife. The worry radiating off of them both made the air almost nauseating, and Arthur’s nerves had become raw and frayed at the man’s non-stop pacing, peering out the foggy windows, at least one hand resting on the hilt of his cattleman at all times. Arthur himself continuously cleaned and recleaned and disassembled and reassembled his own cattleman revolver - a Christmas present from Dutch.

Right when Arthur thought he was either going to puke or have a meltdown, Hosea stopped his pacing and hissed, “That’s it.” He turned around to Arthur and held out a careful finger. “You  _ stay here. _ You  _ don’t leave _ this shack at  _ all, ever. _ You keep the doors and windows locked, and you don’t open the door for  _ anything  _ or  _ anyone  _ except me or Dutch, you understand?”

Arthur immediately leapt to his feet and holstered his revolver. “You’re going after him.”

Hosea narrowed his eyes at him. “Yes. So I need you to stay  _ here.” _

“No!” Arthur barked, fumbling for his coat. 

“Out of the question, sit down and don’t make a fool out of yourself,” Hosea gruffed, opening the front door and hurrying outside, slamming it behind him. Arthur ignored him and pulled his coat tight around his chest, fixing his father’s hat firmly over his head and stomping after him, flinging the door open.

Hosea stopped when he was halfway to Vinegar, spinning around in the mud to face him with a strained expression underneath the pale gray sky.  _ “Arthur. _ I  _ mean it.” _

“If Dutch is in danger, I’m rescuing him with you,” Arthur growled, slamming the front door shut behind him.

Hosea’s eyes widened. “Arthur, this could be dangerous, and there’s too many unknowns here. Besides, you never shot at men before, you never killed before, and I ain’t taking anyone so green out on something like this, you’ll just get yourself killed.”

Arthur balled his fists up and stalked out into the mud to stand face-to-nose with the man, glaring up at him. “You saying I ain’t fit old man? You saying I’m dumb?!”

“I’m saying you’re a  _ kid,” _ Hosea said, his voice a touch softer. Just a touch. “You’re no good to us dead. I need you  _ safe, _ in that shack. In case Dutch comes back,” he added, almost as an afterthought.

Arthur sneered at him. “You’re just tryin’ to get rid o’ me. You don’t think I’m good enough.”

Hosea put his hands on his hips and furrowed his brow downwards. His eyes looked as gray as the sky. “Most  _ grown men  _ aren’t good enough to raid a den of murderers, Arthur, and shootin’ people is a  _ whole lot different _ than shooting  _ bottles.  _ Dutch may already b-” He heaved a breath. “I ain’t gonna watch you get ki-”

The rage and hurt and terror Arthur felt quaking through his limbs suddenly erupted out of his throat as he stomped his foot and screamed,  _ ”Just admit you don't care about me!  _ That you don't want me around! _ I know you think I'm a burden!"  _

Hosea reeled backwards half a step, his hands falling from his hips as he shook his head, his expression pinching. “You’re not a burden, kid,  _ fuck- Listen to me. _ I woulda left to drag his ass home two days ago if it weren’t because I didn’t want to leave you alone that long, and it’s hard enough for me to do now, so I am  _ ordering you, _ kid, _ get the fuck in the house.” _ He pointed sternly in the direction of the door.

Arthur lurched forward and harshly shoved him with all his strength, sending the man stumbling back to bounce off the side of Vinegar, making the gelding jerk his head up.  _ “You ain’t my Pa!” _ he snarled. “You can’t tell me what to do! I don’t gotta listen to you! Fuck you!  _ I hate you!” _

He couldn’t see Hosea’s face from where he was bracing himself on Vinegar’s saddle, his head bowed and turned away. After a few long seconds, he saw Hosea’s hands curl into fists, and the man side-eyed him, his mouth sunk downwards into a grave frown. “You’re right,” he said quietly. Slowly, the man drew himself up to his full height and turned to face Arthur, his eyes glistening slightly. “I ain’t your Pa. And you sure as shit ain’t my  _ son. _ So go ahead. Follow me if you want. Get shot and killed. See if I give a shit.”

And with that, the man vaulted up onto the back of Vinegar and wheeled the gelding around, spurring him forward into a brisk canter. Arthur hurried over to Star - the black Kentucky Saddler with a star on her forehead that they all swindled a tax collector out of so Arthur could ride on his own - and climbed into her saddle, double-checking that his revolver was still in his holster before urging the mare after Vinegar.

They rode for about an hour, their heads ducked down and their hats pulled low against the chilly January wind, until eventually they reached a small clearing off to the side of a crossroads.

“This is where he said he was going,” Hosea muttered, easing Vinegar to a halt, with Arthur stopping Star beside him. The man urgently jumped down out of his saddle and carefully began stepping his way through the mud, his eyes scanning slowly and methodically through every indentation, every scuff mark, every puddle. He seemed to see something, because Arthur watched as his expression slowly grew into more and more of a pained, worried grimace. Hosea walked a careful path around the clearing, kneeling down and touching the ground a few times, before speeding into a jog towards a tree, where he yanked out an arrow and inspected it. “Blood,” he said breathlessly. “It ain’t fresh. There was a fight. Days ago.” His fist went white-knuckled around the arrow, trembling slightly. “This ain’t good.”

Arthur gulped. “Do you know where they w-went?”

Hosea’s eyes trailed the ground and swept towards the treeline. “...North,” he said quietly. He dropped the arrow and ran towards Vinegar. “Come on.”

Together, they rode for hours through the forest and into the hills at an urgent trot, Hosea’s eyes piecing together the trails of five horses with near-crazed determination. As the light in the sky began darkening and a rumble of thunder rolled in the distance, Hosea held his fist up, and they both eased into a stop. “You hear that?” the man whispered.

Arthur strained his ears. “...Wind chimes?” he breathed.

Their eyes met, and silently, they dismounted from their horses and dropped down low, sneaking up towards the top of the hill they were on and lowering down onto their stomachs to crawl, peering up over the ledge.

The sight that met them down below was a concerning one. A dark mining shaft sat embedded in the bottom of a hill, adorned in dozens upon dozens of windchimes and crosses. Surrounding it and facing it in a semi-circle sat three small buildings, painted a harsh white. One of them was a church with a cross towering high above the compound, and from it hung a lynched body. Big words were painted on the buildings’ sides in what looked like runny red paint, although Arthur could only piece together a few of them between Dutchs’s subpar reading lessons and their scrawl:  _ sin, filth, dark. _ About six men were walking around or leaning against crates or wagons and talking amongst each other, all of them wearing the same outfit - white shirts and suspenders with gray pants and corduroy coats. All of them were carrying guns, and two of them had bows and arrows. A hitching post beside the church held three horses - one of which was Dutch’s Empress, with her shining bay coat.

Hosea gestured him backwards before crawling back and rising to his feet again. Arthur followed him and watched as the man removed his hunting rifle from his saddle, then looked at Arthur and seemed to form an idea, his mouth opening, before it slowly closed. “Dutch hasn’t taught you longarms?” Hosea whispered. Arthur shook his head, and Hosea sighed, shouldering the rifle and doing the same with a bow and quiver of arrows. He stepped close to Arthur and lowered his head to meet his eyes, and Arthur straightened at the grave, somber glint in them. “We take this slow. Quiet. Careful,” Hosea breathed. “Use your knife if it comes to it. Stay close to me.”

Arthur swallowed thickly, unsheathed his knife, and nodded.

Together, they stealthily slithered down the hill from cover to cover towards the compound. When they finally got close enough to where they were using barrels and crates and wagons to hide, Arthur pressed himself close against them and made himself small, only for Hosea to crouch down over him and shield him with his body as he knelt and peered around to calculate their next move. Arthur couldn’t find it in himself to get mad - the slow crunch of the cultists’ footsteps moving around them had his hands quaking and his heart thundering up into his mouth, and Hosea’s steel-eyed presence over and around him was enough to keep the panic at bay, to keep him grounded, even as another roll of thunder sounded in the distance. 

A man turned around the corner of a covered wagon, and with one last glance around, Hosea gestured Arthur forward and quickly stepped after the man, crouched low. Arthur kept on his heels, but froze when they turned around the corner of the wagon and saw the back of the man, still there on that side. Hosea didn’t hesitate - in one swift movement, he stepped up behind the man and straightened, clamping a hand over his mouth before driving his knife through the man’s throat to the hilt. He eased the man downwards, stifling his wet gurgling sounds the whole time, until finally the man went silent and limp. Hosea yanked his knife out of the man’s throat and pushed his body into the shadows under the wagon, glancing back at Arthur with a soft, concerned gaze. Arthur gulped at the body, but met Hosea’s eyes and nodded. He’d seen his father kill before, and while it wasn’t nice, it wasn’t anything new. Hosea’s eyes became steely once more and his scowl returned, and with a small gesture, he motioned Arthur forward again.

Arthur had multiple chances to sneak up behind the other five men and stab them, but each time, he froze, his knife trembling as he stared at their chests rising and falling with breath or listened to their laughs as they joked with each other. Hosea was always there half a heartbeat later - stabbing them or slitting their throats or shooting them through the head with an arrow before they could turn their heads and spy Arthur. He resolved to stay close behind Hosea’s hip and focus on not being seen after his third failed attempt, and it wasn’t long before Hosea had downed the sixth man with an arrow, right before he was about to discover the body of one of his friends.

The compound went silent.

Hosea glanced around warily, then shouldered his bow before looking Arthur over. He gestured his head towards the church. “Let’s try there first,” he whispered. Arthur nodded, and with quick feet, they hurried up to the windows of the building and peered inside. Empty. Hosea immediately hurried for the door and eased it open, ushering Arthur inside before closing it behind them with a soft click.

Blinking in the dim light, Arthur scanned around the barren pews and the blood-stained altar standing at the head of the church. Hosea immediately stepped up to a cellar door laying in the middle of the aisle, exposed by a rug, cast aside by someone else. Slowly, he drew his cattleman and cocked the hammer back, glancing over his shoulder rapidly between Arthur and the front doors. 

“...Come on,” Hosea whispered, cringing. “Stay with me. I don’t want you flanked.”

Arthur shakily drew his own gun and nodded, hurrying back up to Hosea’s side. Together, they slowly eased open the cellar door, baring their teeth at the way it bellowed a low, deep croak, and after Hosea aimed his gun into the darkness and poised like a snake about to strike for a long minute, he led them both down into the darkness, keeping Arthur firmly behind his back.

It turned out the cultists were just patient.

Arthur’s eyes barely made out the glint of a gun in the darkness before two shots rang out and the man began slumping to the ground - Hosea grabbed Arthur by the collar and practically threw him down the stairs and behind the cover of a stone altar with a  _ whud. _ Arthur blinked, stunned, then frantically shook his senses back into his head and grabbed his gun, peeking his head up above cover to make sense of the firefight. They were in some kind of basement, lit only by candlelight in the four corners of the room beside grandiose stone altars, with musty brick walls and a dirt floor, at the center of which was some kind of ritual circle. Hosea was ducked behind the other stone altar on his side, frantically reloading his cattleman, and there were three cultists left on the other side of the room, one of which was making a running break for Hosea-

Arthur cocked his hammer back and threw his hands up, shooting frantically at the man with three wild shots until the cultist slammed to his knees with a scream and a hole in his thigh. Arthur ducked back down into cover just in time for two bullets to whistle by his ears, and he saw Hosea snarl and pop back up, firing six times while screaming  _ “Over here, you bastards!” _

The screaming of the man Arthur shot abruptly stopped, and when Arthur popped his head up again, there was only one man left, rising to aim his gun at the altar Hosea was reloading behind. Arthur hyperventilated at the thought of Hosea rising out of cover only to be shot through the head, but then the cultist glanced towards him and locked eyes with him. Arthur screamed and unloaded his chamber, blindly firing while hiding his head behind the altar, and he heard the man shriek  _ “My arm!” _ before Hosea popped out of cover and fired one, decisive shot, cutting the man’s scream off.

The air vibrated around the room, Arthur’s ears rang, and some dirt floated across the floor, but for all intents and purposes, it seemed like they won.

On shaky legs, Arthur rose to his feet, absently opened his chamber, and fumblingly started shoving bullets into it with tremoring fingers. He looked over at Hosea and breathlessly smiled at him where the man was thunderously glaring at all the corpses, then started staggering towards him and yelling “We did it! We did it!”, stepping into the threshold of light pouring in from the open cellar door.

They hadn’t heard the front doors opening during their firefight.

They  _ did  _ hear the slam of a boot on the stairs and the cocking of a hammer.

Arthur turned his head and froze, his pupils contracting in fear as his vision filled with a man’s silhouette, raising the barrel of a gun-

_ “ARTHUR!” _

Hosea’s body slammed into him and a shot rang out. Arthur fell to his back on the floor, out of the light, Hosea falling on top of him and immediately curling around him and fumbling for his dropped gun, bulking himself up to shield every inch of Arthur save only for his right arm and one of his eyes. Arthur spotted the cultist whirl around the bottom of the stairs and raise his gun again, aiming at Hosea-

Arthur’s vision flashed and the world slowed down, down, down, color draining away to a dull copper, all sound smothering itself until all Arthur could hear was the ringing in his ears, and with a flick of his wrist, without looking, Arthur closed the chamber of his gun and cocked the hammer again as he stared dead at the center of the man’s forehead, imagining a violent, harsh, red  _ X marks the spot, _ just like Dutch said. He exhaled through his nose. Squeezed the trigger.

The world roared back into color and noise and the back of the man’s head blew out in a splash of skull shards and brain matter and his body crumpled to the floor, eyes blank and lifeless. 

When it became clear that no more were coming, Hosea shakily pushed himself up and frantically checked Arthur over. He froze and stiffened with a sharp gasp, paling, and when Arthur followed his gaze and saw the blood pooled over his stomach, he did the same. Hosea’s hands instantly slammed down on top of it, searching, but finding only intact cloth. That was when Arthur saw the blood dripping out of Hosea’s stomach.

A strangled cry tore out of his throat as he whimpered  _ “Hosea”  _ and pointed.

Hosea looked where Arthur’s finger was pointing and hitched a breath, his hand slamming harshly over the hole in his stomach and cinching tightly with a single choked grunt. Arthur felt hot tears start streaming down his face as he sat up and clutched at Hosea’s shirt, weeping, “I’m sorry I’m sorry I was  _ so stupid I’m sorry-” _

“Hey,” Hosea said gently, pushing himself up to his knees with one hand with a twitch and a spasm. A tiny wet grunt escaped his throat and he shivered. “It’s fine. I’m fine. See? Look. I’m okay. You’re okay.” His breath was coming fast and from high in his chest, but he determinedly pried Arthur’s fingers off of his shirt and climbed to his feet, leaning his hip back against the stone altar. He gritted his teeth, gulped, shivered again, then shook his head. He gasped in a breath and forced a smile down at him, gesturing with his gun towards the cellar entrance. “I’m okay. I’m fine. Let’s just keep going.”

Arthur nodded mutely at him and quickly finished reloading his chamber, clambering to his feet and holding his gun tightly. “Okay. Okay,” he breathed quietly, feeling numb. His gaze fell to the man he killed, blood pouring out of his head and soaking into the dirt. “I,” he said shakily. “I killed him.”

Hosea holstered his gun so he could clamp a hand down around Arthur’s shoulder, warm and firm and solid. “You saved me, saved both of us. You did  _ good, _ kid,  _ real good,” _ he said breathlessly, caressing his hand back through Arthur’s hair and down the nape of his neck. “I’m so proud of you, Arthur.”

The praise and grounding touch from Hosea rippled across every inch of Arthur and settled deep in his heart, making his eyes sting and his breath catch. Arthur took a deep breath and tore his gaze from the man to look at Hosea’s face, but before he could get a good look at it, Hosea raised his hand to bop Arthur’s hat down over his eyes and moved away to clamber up the stairs. Arthur lifted his hat up and felt a smile flicker across his face despite himself. He exchanged a firm nod with Hosea, and with another deep breath, Arthur followed the man back up into the light, the sound of Hosea’s hitched, pained breathing chasing away the numbness and the nausea and replacing it with a quiet, determined rage, fueled by something warm and tingling.

No one -  _ no one _ \- was going to take Hosea away from him. And if Dutch was still alive, Arthur would stop at nothing to save him.

When they emerged from the church, it was storming outside, flashing with lightning and roaring with thunder, but Arthur didn’t care. A fresh wave of men had streamed out from the mine, but Arthur took them down with a cold, steady efficiency, flitting from cover to cover, firing as Hosea was reloading, reloading as Hosea was firing, and together, they carved a bloody swath across the compound until they reached the steps of the second most promising building. Hosea slumped against the wall of the building and lazily shot down the last couple of men while Arthur tried the door, found it locked, then rammed it open with three slams of his shoulder.

The door slammed against the wall and Arthur held up his gun with a sneer, stepping carefully through the building and checking his corners, refusing to make the same mistake again, clearing it room by room. Finally, in the last room, he banged the door open and- There sat Dutch, slumped on the floor, handcuffed to a bare wire bedframe bolted to the ground, wearing nothing but his torn and bloodstained union suit and his pants. Arthur checked the corners of the room, then rushed over to Dutch, using the hand not holding his gun to grasp him by the shoulder and shake him. “Dutch!” he barked.

Dutch made a low groan, then slowly lifted his head, blinking and squinting blearily at Arthur through his sweat-caked hair. He had a nasty-looking black eye and a few cuts on his cheek. “Arthur...?” he croaked, sounding like he hadn’t had a drop of water in days. 

A relieved breath punched its way out of Arthur’s chest and he choked slightly as he uncocked the hammer of his revolver, falling to his knees and flinging his arms around Dutch’s neck. Dutch wheezed a laugh and weakly lifted an arm to pat his back.

Hosea staggered his way in to slump against the doorframe, then, still clutching his stomach and breathing in a series of hitches and gasps. At the sight of Dutch, alive and in Arthur’s arms, he heaved a near-sob and nearly collapsed at the same time Dutch jolted and ground out “ _ Hosea?” _ , his voice small and afraid, his muscles twisting to try and launch himself up to his feet only to be snapped back down by the handcuffs.

“Hey, Big Cat,” Hosea chuckled, resituating himself on the doorframe to stand a little straighter. “Don’t be stupid. I’m fine. Arthur, shoot the cuffs off him.”

Arthur nodded and stood up immediately, taking a few steps back and taking aim with his revolver, cocking the hammer back and letting out a slow steady breath before shooting the cuffs apart. Dutch slumped to the floor and strained to stand, shaking out his wrist, and Arthur quickly moved to help him up, hauling him onto his feet and slinging his arm over his shoulders with a grunt.

Hosea stepped closer and clicked his tongue. “No, give him to me,” he said gently. Arthur blinked at him, but didn’t question as he silently transferred Dutch over to be held upright by Hosea, and Dutch strained to hold Hosea up right back. Both men clutched at and leaned against each other, weak on their legs, but stable, exchanging trembling grins.

“So,” Dutch croaked at them, his grin shifting into a smirk even as his head lolled a little, “turns out the mine is real.”

Arthur snorted and Hosea rolled his eyes, drawling “Shut up.” He turned his head to Arthur, then, and offered him a soft smile - one that Arthur had never seen from him before, not even for Dutch. “Do you think you can get us back safely to the horses, son?”

Arthur replaced the lost bullet in his gun and snapped the chamber shut as thunder vibrated the building, holding it at the ready aimed down at the floor. He turned his head towards the two men with a determined scowl, meeting both of their gazes, brown and hazel, looking at him with something soft and warm and glowing. He rolled his shoulders back and stood tall. Proud.

For them?

“I know I can.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> P.S. I promise all these photo edits I make are compiled from images with public commons rights lol
> 
> **1\. Dutch van der Linde's Last Stand**  
>  **2\. Escape from Saint Denis**  
>  **3\. Escape from Lemoyne**  
>  **4\. The Letter**  
>  **5\. Reunions**  
>  **6\. Unfinished Business**  
>  **7\. I Know You**  
>  **8\. Dreams, Omens, and Other Harbingers**  
>  **9\. For Whom the Bell Tolls**  
>  **10\. My First Boy**  
>  **11\. National Jewish Health**  
>  **12\. Sins of the Past**  
>  13\. Atonement


	13. Atonement

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warning** for **gore** ; referenced **attempted hanging** ; **child abuse** ; **animal harm/death** ; intense depictions of **emotional abuse, grief,** and **alcoholism** ; implied/referenced **self-harm** and **child death** ; and **internalized homophobia** , because this chapter is 99% flashback and these cowboys have been through some Bullshit.
> 
> So... fun fact, this chapter wasn't even supposed to exist. It and the previous chapter used to be one concept, but then Ch. 12 got away from me and got too long and also communicated the point I wanted to communicate early. So, then I had a whole free chapter and a bunch of leftover bits. What better use of it, especially during a period when Arthur is bedridden and not really doing anything in the present besides deeply and intensely examining his life, to do an almost pure flashback chapter - especially since the next few chapters will have little to no flashbacks at all?
> 
> Chapter VI from the get-go was always going to be more of a character study arc than a plot-driven arc (at least... until the end of those seven months, haha...), so I decided to go a Bit bananas with this chapter and just... explore a bunch of things before we splash around in the present and explore Denver more. I hope you all enjoy, and thank you again, always and eternally, for all your delightful comments!! They brighten my entire day and help all this writing go so much easier ♥

The evening sun was settling low in the Colorado sky, painting it in brilliant hues of pinks, oranges, and reds. It lit Arthur’s bedroom in an aura of fiery hues, casting long, grand shadows against the floor and far wall. Arthur thought it beautiful, and he found himself wondering not for the first time about possibly getting a set of colored pencils or asking for paints and canvas. If they didn’t cost money, he figured he would, but despite how much Hosea tried to hide it, he knew that they were on a deathly tight budget. As much as his boredom inspired him to want to experiment beyond graphite sketches, he didn’t want to ask for anything beyond what was absolutely necessary. There was also the factor of how he already felt like an ungrateful wretch for reading and sleeping all day while Hosea worked and cooked and cleaned and washed. He’d woken up to look over into Hosea’s room and find the man passed out still fully clothed atop the covers more than once since they first moved in.

As if reading his thoughts, Hosea elbowed him in the side from where he was sitting beside him in the bed, and when Arthur looked over, the man gave him a soft smile. 

He and Hosea were just finishing up their supper of peach cobbler topped with a huge scoop of ice cream -  _ “You’re  _ spoilin’  _ me, old man!”  _ he’d crowed when Hosea first brought it up with a self-satisfied smirk - and enjoying the easy quiet of each other’s company. Arthur opened his mouth to say…  _ something, _ but that was when they heard a knock on the front door, barely audible from downstairs.

Hosea grunted around his mouthful and set his bowl aside on Arthur’s night stand, rising from the bed to gesture towards the doorway, mumbling “I’ll go see who that is real quick” before hurrying down the stairs. Arthur savored his last mouthful as he listened to the front door open and the muffled voices of Hosea and- someone who must have been too quiet to hear. His guess as to their identity was proven correct when only a minute later, Hosea came up the stairs and poked his head in to ask, “You mind if Doctor Zieglar comes in, Arthur?”

Brow raising, Arthur nodded and swallowed. “Sure.”

With that, Hosea waved Doctor Zieglar in and moved to sit in the chair beside Arthur’s bed. Doctor Zieglar stepped through the doorway and held up a gift basket full of baked goods in one hand, then a ram’s horn in the other. His mouth sunk further into his face for a moment, which Arthur had learned quickly was the man’s best attempt at smiling. “Hello, Mr. Jones. How are you feeling?”

Arthur grimaced and shrugged. “Exhausted? Like death warmed over?”

Doctor Zieglar shrugged and gestured the ram’s horn in a  _ that’s fair _ motion. “Samuel and Ruth were very concerned about you. They asked me to bring you these cookies and honey cake.” He carefully stepped closer to Arthur’s bed and set the basket down beside Hosea’s bowl on the night-stand. Taking a step back, he also held up the ram’s horn. “You and your father also missed the blowing of the shofar at yesterday’s service. Rosh Hashanah ends when the sun sets, so I thought, if you still wanted to observe the High Holy Days…” Doctor Zieglar grimaced. “Hearing the shofar is pretty…  _ essential. _ Hearing it on Rosh Hashanah is supposed to awaken your soul so that you can, uh... become aware? And start making amends, which… is sort of the whole point, so… If your soul isn’t woken up… I don’t know anything about the consequences and I haven’t been able to see the rabbi to ask about hypotheticals, but as a doctor, I prefer to err on the side of caution.”

Hosea chuckled and leaned back in his chair, crossing his legs before looking over at Arthur. “Feel up for experiencing being blasted by a shofar at point blank range, son?”

Arthur shared a smile with Hosea, then shrugged. “Wake us up, then, Doc,” Arthur prompted with a gesture, bracing himself.

With another one of his sunken-mouth smiles and a deep inhale, Doctor Zieglar raised the shofar to his lips, then unleashed a long, wailing note, followed by three heaving notes that almost sounded like sobbing, which then gave way to nine rapid forceful blasts like a fire wagon bell, before ending on the wail again. 

After a long series of repetitions and variations in the pattern, Doctor Zieglar let out one last, long, lingering note, held desperately until he was entirely out of breath, its sound and echo reverberating almost endlessly, through Arthur’s ribs and through his heart to create a kind of tingling warmth, like sitting in front of a fire after a long time out in the cold.

When the air finally stilled, Hosea slapped his hands on his knees and stood.  _ “Welp, _ I sure feel spiritually awakened! Just in time for me to head off to the slap-stick debauchery I call ‘work,’” he said with a chuckle, crossing around the bed to pick up his and Arthur’s bowls, and Arthur found himself smirking yet again at the thought of the man being pied in the face every weeknight in lace and heels.

“We’re Reform Jews, Mordechai,” Doc Zieglar drawled, “you’re fine.” Hosea snorted at that and left to take the bowls downstairs. The doctor then turned to Arthur, and his eyes softened. “You’ll find little ‘get well’ notes from folk in the basket. You’re always welcome in our community, Arthur, and you’re not the only one struggling.”

Arthur let out a wary sigh and sagged further into the bed. “Thanks, Doc. Sorry for causin’ a scene.”

Doctor Zieglar waved him off. “I swim in human body fluids daily, and everyone there that night had suffered or witnessed similar attacks. There’s no need to apologize. Tuberculosis is - well.” He shrugged and sighed.

Arthur frowned for a moment as an awkward silence grew between them, finding that Hosea wasn’t there to be a mediator. Hesitantly, he ventured, “Hey, Doc…”

“Yes?” Doctor Zieglar perked up as if relieved, his eyes still casually taking in everything in the room that wasn’t Arthur’s eyes. 

“All this… atonin’ talk…” Arthur furrowed his brow and frowned down at his blanket, which he started fiddling with. “Trying to right wrongs, ask forgiveness from God and all that… what if… I mostly heard Christian talk, about grace and Jesus and such. Heaven and Hell. Never could make sense of it. So… how does one go about… being forgiven in Judaism? For hurtin’ folk? Does… does God forgive...  _ everything?” _

Doctor Zieglar dragged a hand down his face and let a long sigh out of his nose. “Well first off, I’m not a rabbi, and second, if you asked two rabbis that question, you’d get three answers. So I can really only give you my own thoughts. And let you know that there’s never any one answer when it comes to Judaism. Wrestling with questions like that is pretty much all we do. ‘Israel’ literally means ‘Wrestles with God,’ after all.” He shrugged. “So… the short answer is ‘no.’ Some things can’t be forgiven and forgiveness isn’t automatic. We have a concept called ‘teshuvah,’ which translates to ‘repentance’ or ‘return.’ It demands... intense self-examination, for you to recognize exactly what you did wrong and to voice it. It also requires you to contact the victim of your wrongdoing-” Arthur’s frown grew grave “-and confess, express regret, and do everything in your power to right your wrong. God isn’t the first priority. The victim is.”

“What if they’re dead?” he said, dully.  _ What if all hundreds of them are dead? _

Doctor Zieglar’s brow pinched. “Then… there’s no one left to forgive you. Forgiveness is impossible. The same is true if you just… can’t find a way to contact them. No one can forgive a crime that they weren’t a victim of on anyone else’s behalf. Not even God can. At that point, you just… do your best to do right by the victim’s family or their community, or… do your best to do right by the world at large. Only then is where God comes in, and at that point it's just… He can only give you half the equation of forgiveness. The other half will remain empty forever."

Arthur felt like he had a cement block in his stomach. “So… what, then… you’re doomed to Hell?”

A sharp huff of laughter blew out of Doctor Zieglar’s nose and his mouth sank into the not-quite-smile again. “Ah, I’m not too big on the concept of Hell. That’s not really a factor in the way I understand things. Most folk argue about it ‘till they’re out of breath, but most answers I hear is that, no, there’s no eternal damnation.”

Arthur squinted in confusion. “What… then… do you just automatically get into Heaven?”

Doctor Zieglar put his hands deep into his pockets.  _ “No, _ that… I don’t think that’s the case either. If there even is a ‘Heaven.’”

“So…” Arthur blinked. “What… how does… the afterlife or, or final judgement or stuff like that even work?”

Doctor Zieglar shrugged. “I don’t know. And every rabbi in the world is trying to figure that out. Most of our attention goes to trying to figure out  _ this  _ world.” He pointed at the ground. “This is where God’s attention is. This is where punishment and reward takes place. This world is the one that’s holy. At least… to me, it is.”

Arthur fiddled with the hem of his blanket a little more furiously. “...What can I do, then, if… If I’m stuck in a damn  _ bed?” _

The doctor took in a long, deep breath, then sagged against the doorframe. “...Think? Try? Reflect on God? Study Torah, pray, work with your father to donate money to charity, write letters…” He shrugged again. “Find your own answers.”

At that moment, the sound of Hosea’s hurried feet came bounding up the steps and Arthur spotted the man dart into his bedroom, then heard the sound of his dresser opening before the man’s voice called out “I’m gonna be late for work if you don’t get outta my damn house, Doc!”

Doctor Zieglar huffed a laugh out of his nose. “I got caught up talking about theology with your son,” he quietly said into the hallway.

_ “What?” _ called Hosea from his bedroom, and Doctor Zieglar huffed and held his hands up in surrender.

Arthur gestured towards the stairs. “You best get goin’. He always gets real crabby before he leaves for work.”

Doctor Zieglar offered his awkward smile yet again. “I’ll evacuate. It was good talking with you, Arthur. You rest those lungs, now.”

Arthur gave him a mock-salute and polite nod, and Doctor Zieglar showed himself down the stairs.

A few seconds later, Hosea was in Arthur’s room with his vest and satchel on, lighting the lantern on Arthur’s night-stand and grabbing Arthur’s alarm clock, setting it for Arthur’s next due glass of milk - Arthur heaved a grumbling noise and Hosea mockingly mimicked the noise right back at him - before putting it back down and reaching out to lay a heavy hand on the side of Arthur’s head. “As always, I’ll be back around midnight. Don’t wait up for me, get some rest, and take care of yourself.”

“And you try not to break a hip falling all over the stage, ‘Hester,’” Arthur quipped.

“You’re gonna be the death of me,” Hosea drawled, gently shoving his head before walking away, then paused to turn back and say, “I love you, son.”

Arthur found himself deflating immediately, his smirk easing downwards into something almost somber. This was one of their rituals that they held fairly sacred - Hosea always made a point to say ‘I love you’ before he left the house. Why the man felt moved to do so, Arthur didn’t like to dwell on too much. Some of the possibilities broke his heart. 

“I love you, too, ‘Sea,” he said softly.

The corners of Hosea’s eyes crinkled, and then he was gone, and after the sounds of his footsteps hurrying down the stairs, his voice greeting Doctor Zieglar, and of the front door opening and closing faded away, Arthur was left to the silence.

The silence and his thoughts.

With a wary sigh, Arthur reached out to the basket that Doctor Zieglar left and glanced through the notes - a jumble of  _ Don’t push yourself, your health comes first! _ and  _ We missed you last night! _ and  _ Peace and blessings! _ , all from folk who he was little more than a stranger to. His first reaction was that it was all empty words, but after he thought about it, he figured they weren’t. He always did want to believe the best in people, despite how the world tried to condition him otherwise. Or tried to punish him for it.

Something slithered up his spine and made his skin crawl and his breath hitch, so he hurriedly resituated himself to where his back wasn’t facing towards the open window, but rather the wall, his sightlines on both the window and the door. His heart thundered in his chest despite him having no idea why. Grinding his teeth, Arthur furiously grabbed a cookie and unwrapped it from its paper, shoving it in his mouth despite his achingly full stomach and raw throat to try and chase away the sensation. 

He didn’t used to be like this. Not for twenty years, at least - a scared and frightful cry-baby whose body rebelled against him, beyond just the plague in his lungs. He kept reacting to dangers that weren’t there, his mind kept spiraling into rooms full of dark shadows and yellowed teeth and greasy hands, kept reliving his worst and most bitter regrets, kept seeing Dutch’s shot-up body in a pool of blood staring sightlessly upwards-

Two crosses in the grass in front of a boarded up farmhouse with blood splatters still on the walls and seeped into the floorboards-

Annabelle’s scalped and desecrated corpse draped over Dutch’s arm-

His father’s wild and terrified eyes streaming tears before the lever’s pulled and he falls and his neck snaps with a jerk-

His mother’s chest going still-

Arthur barely managed to gulp down his mouthful before raising a hand to cover his mouth, closing his eyes as two hot tears leaked out to spill down his cheeks. He threw the remainder of the useless cookie out the window and drew his knees to his chest, burying his face in them as pain bloomed in his chest and his rattles got louder, threatening to send up coughs.

This all started after Colm got a hold of him. He’d been-... maybe not good, but  _ fine, _ he’d been solid and strong - shaken from their losses in Blackwater, but unbowed and unbroken. The O’Driscolls’ ministrations sure as hell bowed him.

He’d broken in that tipi on the Wapiti reservation, but it wasn’t from the tuberculosis. Not… alone, at least. The diagnosis was like a piece of straw falling atop an overladen donkey’s back, making it break in half. The only thing was, Arthur only ever seemed to keep breaking, ground down more and more into fine dust, becoming so small and fragile that sometimes it felt like a stiff breeze would blow him away. On the porch of the sanatorium, he almost did.

Hosea kept all of their guns locked in the cellar. Arthur couldn’t be their guardian anymore.

It was so hard to think about the future. To see beyond death. To see it as anything other than an inevitability, a just reward, a…  _ release. _

Arthur listened to his own weak breaths echo back at him from the tent of his head and his knees. He thought about death. He thought about life. He thought about the future. He thought about what, if anything, could make it all worth it.

He thought about atonement.

Hundreds of equations left unfinished. Hundreds of gaping wounds in the world like bullet-holes, some scarred over yet still gnarled into its fabric, some still raw and open and bleeding. Arthur had tried to treat some of them. To apply pressure, and clean them, sew up the holes he made. The holes the gang made. He’d saved Edith Downes’ life and the life of her son, managed to reunite them with each other, to give them money for a new life - freely given. Managed to do the same for that cavalryman and his Native wife, and for that other poor widow and her child. Each instance made him feel more peace than he had in over a decade.

Not since their gang rode up into poor farms to buy folks’ way out of servitude, or single-handedly stopped orphanages and shelters for battered women from going bankrupt, or roamed around finding achingly disadvantaged communities to give their fortunes away to, the minorities most scorned by the people they’d conned or robbed. Saving people as needed saving, feeding people as needed feeding.

...When did they add “killing people as need killing”?

The first life Arthur ever took had been to protect Hosea. Arthur kept killing to protect him, to protect Dutch, to protect all of the gang. Then he started killing because Dutch asked him to. Not out of protection, but rather… seeking folk out  _ to  _ kill them.

And Dutch… well, Dutch was the future. Dutch had everything figured out, and knew all the answers to all the questions, and if he didn’t then he was always going to find them. Dutch was smart. Dutch was  _ kind. _ And Arthur put all of his faith in him, into his promises, his ideas and ideals, into his future.

But then it turned out Dutch wasn’t so kind. And Dutch wasn’t so smart. It turned out that, in reality, Dutch was a scared and broken man consumed by doubts, who got lost in the shadows in his own head, who didn’t know anything at all, in the end. Nothing except his love for the men he called his family.

And dammit, Arthur loved him too, even still.  _ Desperately. _ But Dutch couldn’t be his future. Not anymore.

Hosea… If Dutch had been the future, Hosea had been the present. Rather than looking ahead with his head in the clouds, Hosea mostly looked to the side with his feet firmly on the ground. Hosea freely admitted that he didn’t know the answer to everything, and that made him wise. He’d never been much of a driving force for them, never been much of an engine; rather, he was what held them together, the brace allowing them to bear such weight, the enduring stitches and soothing salve that allowed them to survive otherwise fatal wounds. 

At some point, Hosea had overtaken Arthur. Had passed him when Arthur had collapsed and gotten stuck, ready to shatter apart and fade away, and suddenly Hosea was the future. Hosea was the one thing holding him together anymore, on top of tugging him along, pulling him forward, coaxing  _ Come on, follow me, keep going. _

But Hosea wouldn’t always be there for him. As much as Arthur hated and loathed the thought, wanted to never think about it because it made him want to throw up and scream, Hosea was going to die - maybe sooner, maybe later - but eventually Hosea wouldn’t have a choice but to leave his side, to let go of him, to stop pulling him forward. 

Hosea couldn’t be his future. Not forever.

The gang… well. The gang was his  _ family. _ Bright and jubilant, loud and proud, colorful and joyful. Each of them made up a star in a greater constellation of purpose. Arthur had once told Sean, back before he got his brains blown out,  _ "Nothing means more to me than this gang. The bond we share, it's the most real thing to me." _ Dutch had done everything he could to keep it together, and after his death Hosea  _ tried _ to do the same - but in the end they all had to scatter and flee for their lives.

There was no guarantee the gang would be able to find each other again. There was also no guarantee that, even if they did, they would all choose to remain with each other. It would only be natural if, after reaching safety, after gaining the choice of  _ options, _ that they would choose to drift apart, to live their own lives and pursue their own dreams. They wouldn't need each other any more. They wouldn't need  _ Arthur. _

The gang couldn't be his future. Namely because there was no, or would no longer be, any gang.

. . .

John.

Arthur lifted his head, slowly inhaled, and huffed a laugh, the corners of his mouth ticking up.

Everything always came back to John, didn't it?

Arthur used to hate the little bastard. Then he grew to love the snot out of him, only to hate him again. John had that effect on people. He always was a bit of a clueless idiot who worked in his own way and spoke his own language- or… struggled to understand  _ everyone else's _ language. Sometimes it seemed like John didn't really have a language. Sometimes it seemed like John didn't have much going on in his head or his heart at all, although Arthur knew that wasn't true. 

The tears in his eyes and his desperate cry of  _ Brother! _ proved that much.

Arthur frowned and sighed, dragging his hand across his eyes to massage at his temple as guilt slid down his throat and his chest to settle low in his stomach.

He'd…  _ hated… _ John. Or at least, he genuinely thought he did. He tried to cut the man entirely out of his life as a result, to burn everything they had together. He  _ did _ burn the portrait he'd kept of them both, one regretful, venomous night when he'd been consumed by a storm of emotions. He'd tried to save it after a little while, but by then it was too late - the picture was destroyed, and by all accounts, it seemed their relationship was, too.

They’d  _ just  _ started piecing their relationship back together after John finally realized what losing Jack would mean, pushed their broken edges against each other over Dutch’s grave, and tried to seal the cracks with their shared fear of becoming orphans a second time when they noticed Hosea buckling. Then, well - everything went to shit and Micah led Milton and Ross straight to their door, and Hosea was gonna go out in some big stupid blaze of glory to save them all just like Dutch did, only unlike Dutch, he would’ve died alone, and Arthur knew he wouldn’t have been able to live with himself if he’d abandoned the man who saved him to a death like that, because  _ nobody _ should have to die alone. 

But in doing so, he’d abandoned John. And he  _ knew  _ how hard the man had taken it when it was  _ Dutch  _ who was suddenly ripped away from him without warning. Arthur shuddered and frowned out the window, staring up at the stars, and wondered where John was. How he was doing. If he was okay - if  _ Abigail and Jack _ were okay. If they were burdened too heavily with grief and fear. If John was tearing himself up thinking he’d left his and Hosea’s and Charles’s bodies behind to rot where they lay. 

“Oh, John…” he mumbled, easing himself slowly, gingerly, down to the bed and onto his pillow, under the blankets.

_ Sadie, Charles, wherever you are, make sure that fool boy don’t do anything stupid. _

A warm breeze blew in through the window and caressed through his hair, and Arthur let himself sigh, sagging further into the bed as his eyelids drooped.

...Maybe a future with John wouldn’t be too bad. Being there for the man. Helping him, guiding him, protecting him. Doing right by him, doing right  _ together, _ finding their place in this new, scary world, to try and earn forgiveness and redemption side by side, to work with him and Abigail and Hosea to do right by Jack and make sure that boy didn’t want for anything in the world, to make sure he became a better man than all of them. Arthur thought that maybe… maybe he could do that. Could fight for that.

For his little brother. 

Arthur rubbed a wary hand over his chest, eased out a long, pained breath, and closed his eyes, settling into a determined slumber and willing his scarred up lungs to  _ heal. _

-~-~-

For four years, Arthur learned and settled into his life with Dutch and Hosea, building and establishing a garden of assuredness and strength, of pride and earnest simplicity, of safety and love, with both of their guiding hands over his.

The bond that forged between him and Hosea that gray, stormy day seemed to unlock something new and warm and shining between all three of them, and all of them bounded forth from that shadowy place of fear and bloodshed to explore the new dimension they’d found together. Arthur no longer felt like a burden or a useless child, forced to hide under Dutch’s coattails. He was their equal, their  _ friend, _ capable of handling himself and protecting them, of being useful - and he proved himself twice over when, two months after the cult incident, Dutch and Hosea took him with them for his first bank robbery. Dutch had looked at him with a shining, giddy twinkle in his eye as he pulled his bandana up over his nose, and as Arthur did the same, Hosea had laid a warm and heavy hand on the nape of his neck and looked at him with a soft, steady gaze over his own bandana that made Arthur’s jackrabbit heartbeat slow and his hands stop sweating. They all exchanged a nod and drew their guns at the same time, and Arthur had smirked when he slammed the door open for Dutch to make his grand entrance and bellow  _ “Ladies and gentlemen, this is a robbery!” _

Together, they roamed across multiple states, conning and burglaring and robbing businessmen and foremen, land speculators and “old money” bloodlines, keeping only a handful of cash to purchase necessities and giving the rest away. Arthur loved seeing hope ignite in defeated folks’ eyes, hearing breathless expressions of thanks and the ringing laughter of children with new toys and food in their bellies. It made his two years starving and shivering in the streets feel like they were worth something.

Dutch continued to teach him things, like horsemanship and penmanship and…  _ theory, _ and Hosea eased into teaching him things, too - taught him how to hunt and shoot a rifle with quiet, endless patience, and picked up where Dutch left off in teaching him how to read and write, sitting close to him with gentle instruction, catching onto his struggles and rearranging his approach until it clicked with how Arthur’s brain worked. As time passed, as the seasons changed, Hosea also started adding small, warm touches to his shoulder and back and hair, slipping “son” more and more into his vocabulary alongside the new addition of “my boy” until “kid” was entirely eclipsed and replaced. When Dutch and Hosea finally learned that his birthday was “sometime in November maybe,” they’d decided that his birthday was November 25th, and went out of their way to celebrate Arthur’s sixteenth birthday by taking him out to share a proper meal in the nearest saloon and spoiled him with sweets from the nearest baker’s. They spent that night teaching him songs and sharing a beer with him, and he blamed it on being drunk when tears streamed down his cheeks as he laid down in his bed roll to sleep, shaking with leftover giggles.

A few months after that was when Dutch got them involved at the wrong end of a cutthroat gang of killers, stealing from their mark without any bloodshed before they got there and leaving behind a viper’s nest of law to greet them with instead. They’d been fleeing up the foggy banks of the Mississippi river, he and Dutch were laughing and joking, and Hosea had been looking behind them, when all of the sudden thirty gunmen sprang out of cover and unleashed a storm of gunfire. Arthur’s horse - his ninth since Star, a brown and white Paint named Piper that he’d  _ had to have _ a month ago after he knocked out her racist owner in a saloon brawl - had reared and got shot through the head in his stead, and Arthur barely had enough time to yelp in shock and grief before he went tumbling into the rapid current of the river and got swept away to the sound of Dutch and Hosea’s screams. He finally fought his way to shore  _ way too many minutes _ later, and spent hours trudging through the wilderness and killing more than a dozen stray gang members to fight his way back to them. 

When he got to the ambush point, all he saw was a sea of bodies. After frantically searching them all to see if any were Dutch or Hosea and finding that they weren’t amongst them, Arthur had resorted to spinning around in panicked circles and screaming out their names into the mist until he’d gone hoarse. He kept trying to yell and stagger in circles for he didn’t know how long until he finally heard them screaming for him in the distance. Summoning strength he didn’t have, Arthur ran towards the sound of their voices and ground out one last broken  _ “Dutch! Hosea!” _ before he fell to his knees. Two shadows emerged in the mist, and the next thing he knew, Hosea - covered in blood that wasn’t his own - was running full tilt towards him and slamming to his knees in front of him, and Arthur didn’t wait before throwing himself into the man’s chest to hoarsely wail and weep  _ “I thought you left me, I thought you left me.” _ Hosea cinched him tightly to his front and tucked his head over his as Dutch - covered in even more blood than Hosea - stumbled over and folded himself over Arthur’s back, burying his forehead into the nape of Arthur’s neck, and Hosea breathed  _ “I’m right here, dear boy, I’m right here, I’m  _ never  _ gonna abandon you, okay? Neither of us are, not ever, we’re right here” _ as Dutch worked his fingers through Arthur’s hair and shook.

Their time together continued, their bond forged in fire and tempered in ice, with Arthur watching their backs, and them watching his. They settled into a routine, into a  _ normalcy. _ They shared their food, shared their money, shared their time with each other, even shared their beds when cold snaps hit, with Arthur tucked between Dutch’s and Hosea’s chests, sleeping soundly without a care in the world in a resonating chamber of their heartbeats. They also frequently gave each other gifts, even outside of special occasions - Arthur would bring them things he found while out and about that reminded him of them, like funny books or medicinal herbs for Hosea, or ornate gold jewelry or expensive cigars for Dutch. Dutch in turn took Arthur out to pick out new guns and customize them at his expense, Hosea surprised him with an ornate leather-bound journal to write and draw in and then kept gifting him fine pencils, and the both of them squirreled away for hours on his seventeenth birthday under the guise of business only to return with a gorgeous raven black Ardennes mare with official papers and everything - all for him, because “she reminded us of you.” Arthur had flapped like a bird and flitted around and hugged her face and named her  _ Boadicea  _ after a Celtic heroine in a book he and Hosea had read together, then worked with Dutch’s bubbly guidance all that afternoon and evening to learn and familiarize himself with her and desensitize her and saddle-train her, and later that night, as Dutch and Hosea goaded him into blowing out a match stuck into a chocolate muffin, Arthur wished for only one thing:

For things to stay just as they were, forever, and never change.

That was, of course, the last year before everything started drastically changing.

Part of what made up the fabric of their routine and their normalcy to Arthur was the fact that Dutch and Hosea were…  _ together. _ That was always the best word he could come up with for it. “It” consisted of how Dutch always seemed to love tugging on Hosea’s belt loops and squeezing his hips, in how Hosea would idly tuck Dutch’s hair behind his ear or twine their pinkies together, how they always slept next to each other even in the height of summer - and also of the bigger, queerer things, like all the times where Dutch would insist that he and Hosea needed some “private time” to “discuss private things” and would Arthur kindly go hunt them some supper or sniff out some leads, and Arthur would go off on his assignment and sulk until he came back and saw both men flushed and drenched in sweat, even in crisp springs and autumns, like they’d just finished doing hard labor instead of talking. One time after a string of good fortune they all got drunk on bottles of pilfered honey whiskey and Arthur had to figure out if he was hallucinating or not when he saw Dutch plop himself in Hosea’s lap and slur  _ “I know somethin’ else you can polish off, Old Girl~” _ before throwing up on Hosea’s boots. Then there was that other time after a string of bad luck and terrifying close calls when Arthur peeked out of his tent to spy them slow-dancing to the crickets in the middle of the night, their faces hidden in each other’s necks with their fingers intertwined, holding each other close.

Then, shortly after Arthur turned eighteen, Dutch showed up to camp with the ex-madame they’d been working with for the past month and announced  _ “The lovely Miss Grimshaw has accepted my proposition to join us!” _ before reeling her into him and kissing her deeply in a cloud of mutual giggles, and Arthur felt Hosea stiffen beside him. Overnight, their routine shattered into pieces - suddenly, Dutch and  _ Miss Grimshaw _ were sleeping together while Hosea slept alone, and Dutch started asking for “private time” with  _ Miss Grimshaw _ while sending both Hosea and Arthur away. Hosea seemed fine with it - he’d smile politely at Miss Grimshaw whenever she came near and always offered her coffee in the morning and riffed with her well on cons, and he still talked warmly with Dutch and they both still touched each other, but it was limited to only their shoulders and backs, now. Arthur, in contrast, was  _ not  _ fine with it. He hated it. It wasn’t  _ normal. _ It  _ broke  _ their  _ routine, _ and Arthur swiftly grew to resent Miss Grimshaw not only for her sharp tone and rough hands, barking orders and talking down at him and shoving him towards the wood chopping block or Boadicea, but for how she  _ changed things. _

“Arthur, my boy,” Hosea had gently said to him one evening while they were out fishing, leaving Dutch and Miss Grimshaw to more ‘private time’ at camp, “why don’t you get along with Miss Grimshaw?”

Arthur scowled out at his bobber and narrowed his eyes. “‘Cause she replaced you.”

There was a heavy beat. Then, Hosea loudly snorted and hooked a fish. “Last I checked, I’m still part of the gang.”

Arthur glowered more at his still bobber. “She replaced you with Dutch.”

Hosea quickly and efficiently reeled his fish in and slid it into his game satchel before incredulously huffing, “Dutch and I are still friends, son. What made you think otherwise?”

Arthur felt a bite and tried his best to jerk the line to hook it; he felt a vague resistance before the line quivered and went serenely lax. The damn thing just took his bait. With a frustrated growl, Arthur reeled in his line and said, “I know y’all are friends, but she replaced all your other stuff.”

Hosea paused in rebaiting his hook to squint and smile at him with a laugh. “What ‘other stuff’ is she replacing?”

“You know…” Arthur hedged, turning to look at him once his line was all drawn in. He made a vague hand gesture. “Your  _ stuff.” _

“I genuinely have no idea what you’re talking about,” Hosea drawled, casting his line back out with a fond shake of his head.

Arthur fumblingly put new bait on his hook as he growled “Oh, cut the crap. You an’ Dutch…” He huffed. “I know y’all were lovers, okay? You weren’t subtle.”

“It wasn’t like that,” Hosea said quietly. 

Arthur let the silence hang as he cast his line back out. After a long while of furrowing his brow, Arthur asked, “Then what was it like?”

Hosea was quiet for a minute as he carefully chose his words, idly hooking and reeling in another fish in the meantime. After he cast his line out yet again, he sighed and said, “We were just two lonely men, Arthur. Companions. We comforted each other in that way when we needed it, but we weren’t in love. We love each other - more than anything in the world, I reckon - but we’re not  _ in  _ love with each other. Does that make any sense?”

“Naw, it don’t,” Arthur replied easily, shaking his fishing pole slightly in the hopes it would summon something to bite it. Hosea sighed again.

“We’re not lonely anymore. We got you, after all, didn’t we?” Hosea hooked yet another fish. “I’m glad Dutch felt comfortable enough to get a woman. Probably from seeing you do so well with that Mary Gillis down the way - he remembered they existed!”

Arthur smiled and blushed and scuffed his boot through the dirt at the mention of Mary, then sombered and side-eyed Hosea. “You’re still lonely, though.”

Hosea’s hand faltered on his reel and the fish he’d hooked pulled his line back out a ways before he stopped it. “That…” Hosea huffed and side-eyed him right back. “You… are an insufferable bastard, Arthur Morgan.” Arthur tossed his head back and laughed, and Hosea joined in, too, before finally stifling his chortles enough to say, “Me an’ Dutch are okay. We’re just our own thing. We always have been and always be. As long as I have him and you in my life, dear boy, I’ll be just fine. Now do  _ try  _ and give Miss Grimshaw a chance, won’t you?”

Arthur huffed. “Fine.”

A month and a half later, after a steady crescendo of non-fond bickering that turned into yelling that turned into outright screaming matches and thrown objects, Dutch and Miss Grimshaw decided that they were Not Together anymore, and instead settled into an easy friendship. Arthur warmed to her immediately once that whole mess stopped, and once Miss Grimshaw no longer had to worry about Dutch hanging off of her, she assertively carved out her own niche - namely, making sure their camp and their hygiene was in order, playing dominoes and cards with Hosea over tea, teaching Arthur how to get out of chokeholds and grapples and going on solo cons with him, and joining both Hosea and Arthur in taking the mickey out of Dutch, who’d always sulk like a wet cat. Dutch didn’t go back to hanging off of Hosea either, but he did start spending way more time with both him and Arthur again, and Arthur found himself settling into and growing fond of their new routine, their new normal - a normalcy that included Miss Grimshaw, with the four of them all sleeping in a star formation around the fire.

Then, a year after  _ that, _ Hosea brought Bessie to camp, and everything  _ changed  _ again.

Bessie was a short and chubby woman who only came up to Hosea’s collarbone, with feathery strawberry-blonde hair and big green eyes and a face that seemed incapable of anger, and as Hosea was introducing her to them, Arthur only had to take one look at the way Hosea and Bessie kept gazing into each other’s eyes like they each hung the moon and the stars to know that it wasn’t going to be a repeat of Dutch and Miss Grimshaw. Everything Dutch and Miss Grimshaw were, Hosea and Bessie were not. Whereas Dutch and Miss Grimshaw were all handsy grabs and raucous banter and powder kegs of passion that flared out quickly, Hosea and Bessie were all tender caresses and adoring murmurs and getting distracted rubbing their noses together as they shaved in the morning. They had some similarities to how Dutch and Hosea were from before, only… Dutch and Hosea made what they had seem almost incidental or beneath their own notice, but Hosea and Bessie were like starstruck lovers on the cover of a penny romance novel - and just as chaste. They never asked for “private time” or sought it out at hotels - instead, Bessie made a concerted and warm effort to make sure she befriended Susan and Dutch, and she reverently went out of her way to get to know and spend quality time with Arthur, going on long walks with him to simply learn about him and talk. Part of those talks was her asserting that she never wanted to come between Arthur and Hosea, and true to her word, Bessie and Hosea made a point to warmly and affectionately include him into their daily routines of meals, fireside talks, and table games. Consequently, Arthur swiftly grew to love and adore Bessie, just as Miss Grimshaw and Dutch did.

That didn't stop Dutch from being awfully quiet and twitchy around camp, however. Even when he, Arthur, and Hosea were out doing a con or a job together, Dutch could never seem to smile for long, mostly because Hosea was always distracted and vibrating with anxiety to return to Bessie's side and kept pressing them to hurry things up so they could get back to camp. Arthur figured it was because Bessie refused to carry a gun - Lord knew  _ he'd _ be beside himself to rush back if Mary was there and not in the… 'safety'... of her father's house - but the dark shadow that always passed over Dutch's eyes each time Hosea bolted into the distance on Silver Dollar as soon as they were done suggested that other things were going through Dutch's head. 

“You jealous?” Arthur ribbed once, when he was feeling especially gutsy.

Dutch turned that dark gaze on him and dramatically huffed, blowing the shadow away like a puff of smoke. “Jealous of  _ what?” _ he drawled, his voice high and incredulous as he leaned back in Empress’s saddle. “Being so consumed by a woman that I can no longer enjoy the simple pleasures of life or stop to smell the roses?”

Arthur held his hands up and smirked before huffing a laugh and easing forward to rest on Boadicea’s saddle-horn. “I’m just sayin’, you were pretty ‘consumed’ by Hosea not too long ago.”

Dutch puffed up like a turkey and his eyes grew dark again. “Don’t you talk about that,” he hissed, glancing around as Arthur frowned and tensed. “You haven’t been goin’ on tellin’ Miss Grimshaw have you? And, God-” Dutch suddenly fixed Arthur with a half-panicked stare, the shadow gone yet again “-you haven’t told  _ Bessie, _ now-?!”

Arthur was already shaking his head and sitting up. “Naw, naw, I-”

“Good,” Dutch huffed, and he held up a finger as Empress flattened her ears and anxiously glanced back at him, absorbing his emotions. “And don’t you  _ start  _ tellin’ no one, either.”

Arthur furrowed his brow and slowly caressed Boadicea’s neck. “I won’t, but... What’s wrong with it?”

Dutch grimaced. “There ain’t nothin’ wrong with it,” he said quickly, “it’s just- private. And in the past. Ain’t no use bringin’ it up, so don’t. There wasn’t even an ‘it’ to- nevermind.” Dutch paused a second. “And I  _ ain’t jealous _ of  _ her.”  _

Arthur raised his hands again and nodded placatingly. “Okay,  _ okay, _ I believe ya.”

Dutch sighed after that, deflating slowly as he gently leaned forward and soothed his hand down the length of Empress’s neck to calm her down, and Arthur warily relaxed alongside the mare. “Now,” Dutch said, his voice back to its normal warm drawl as he resituated his hat on his head and his bright smile returned to his face, “what do you say you and I have some fun to show the old girl exactly what he’s missin’ out on?” Dutch looked at him with a twinkle in his eye. “I’ll race you to North Elkhorn Creek!”

Arthur blew a loud scoff and indignantly flapped his hand at the man. “You wanna race your goddamn  _ Quarter-horse _ against my big gal? You gonna do Bo dirty like that?!” Boadicea shook out her coat and snorted.

Dutch grandiosely shrugged. “It’s the  _ rider, _ not the horse, that makes the race, son. Think about it. Empress is a sprinter, but good Boadicea over there has the endurance. Your gal can also go off the trails and cut straight through the brush without a problem, while ol’ Empress’s delicate legs need to stay on the trail if she’s sprintin’. Put all that together and you got a fair shake, if you know your horse well and y’ain’t dumb.”

“I ain’t dumb!” Arthur bristled. “And me an’ Bo are solid!”

Dutch quirked an eyebrow and grinned. “Then prove it. On my mark, now-” Arthur readied himself in Boadicea’s saddle as Dutch did the same, both men patting their mares’ necks “-one… two… three… GO!”

Dutch took to regularly taking Arthur out with him for anything and everything after that, whether it be two-man jobs or just a drink and some random mischief, and when winters came and the gang had to hole up in abandoned houses to avoid the weather, as Hosea and Bessie quickly scoped out a room to themselves, Dutch would point at Arthur and jerk his thumb over his shoulder while declaring “Arthur, you’re rooming with me” in the tone that indicated  _ No  _ wasn’t a valid answer - as if  _ No  _ ever was a valid answer with Dutch, since the man had a unique talent for making Arthur feel like the shit of the Earth if he ever said the word. That being said, Arthur sure as hell didn’t complain - he wouldn’t confess it even with a gun to his head, but he missed sharing a bed with Dutch or Hosea. The winter after Mary rejected his proposal to marry and run away with him had him crying into Miss Grimshaw’s skirt on Christmas Eve as she awkwardly patted his head, and was also when Hosea and Bessie came back from a ‘little trip’ on Christmas with a tiny squirming coonhound pup with a little blue ribbon around his neck that they immediately called Arthur over to receive, and Arthur’s twenty-one-year-old voice and towering broad figure immediately crumpled to the ground and squealed  _ “A puppy?!”  _ as they pressed the little babe into his arms. 

All four of their steady presences and support, on top of the companionship of Copper and Boadicea, made other changes - even massive ones - hit softer and feel less overwhelming. The biggest test of this was the following autumn, when Arthur found out the waitress he’d had a one-night-stand with in the wake of Mary had given birth to a baby boy -  _ his  _ baby boy - and all four of his mentors helped reassure and guide him into being a semi-present father, enabling him to ride out every few months to spend a couple weeks with his son and support the poor girl. 

One time, he asked Eliza if it was all right if he brought the men who raised him to see their son, and blessedly, that beautiful woman said yes - and so it was that, on his next visit, he had both Dutch and Hosea in tow. Eliza gently handed Arthur their nine-month-old son, who immediately plapped his baby hands all over Arthur’s stubble, and Arthur was so busy beaming down at his boy that he almost missed the way Dutch and Hosea pressed themselves even closer together from where they had flattened themselves against the far wall.

“Dutch… Hosea…” Arthur said quietly, glancing up to grin at them as he slowly stepped up to them, “...meet Isaac.” 

Isaac made a tiny happy squeal and babbled upon seeing their faces, and he stared up at the men who very well could be called his grandfathers with big blue eyes that matched Arthur’s in a face nearly as olive as his mama’s. Hosea and Dutch shared a look, then another, before Hosea finally, hesitantly lifted his hand to drift closer to Isaac. Isaac reached out and wrapped his tiny fist around Hosea’s pointer finger, then promptly bit it, making Hosea’s face light up as he gently laughed. Arthur glanced between the two men with a warm smile and prompted, “You wanna hold ‘im?” leaning slightly towards Dutch.

Dutch paled and leaned away, holding his hands up as a ward. Hosea, however, leaned in and brought his arms up to form a cradle, and Arthur gingerly passed Isaac into Hosea’s arms as the man cooed in a high, soft whisper  _ “Hi, hi, hi” _ and shifted his arms to support the baby’s head. Arthur leaned back and took in exactly how natural Hosea looked - the crow’s feet in the corners of his eyes and the gray asserting itself in his temples made it look like he really could be a grandfather, and as Isaac giggled at Hosea’s wide smile, Hosea softly said “I take back every instance I ever said ‘I hate babies.’”

Dutch snorted and said, “Someone check Hell, ‘cause it must have frozen over,” but he was smiling at the two just as warmly as Arthur was.

After gently bouncing Isaac for a minute and letting him feel his face and squeeze his nose, Hosea suddenly turned towards Dutch and swayed into his space. “You should hold him.”

Dutch paled and held up his hands again. “I don’t think that’s a good i-”

“Shut up, you’ll do great,” Hosea soothed with a soft smile, pressing his forehead against Dutch’s, and just like that Dutch seemed to be put under some kind of spell, because his eyes went real big and he almost absently held his arms up as Hosea assertively pressed the baby against his chest and guided his hands to the proper position. Arthur giggled at the sight of Dutch standing stiff as a board staring down at Isaac like he was a block of TNT, and Isaac, determined to make things even harder on Dutch, immediately started fussing and crying. Dutch looked at Hosea pleadingly, then looked at Arthur for rescue, but both men just laughed as Hosea slung his arm around Arthur’s shoulders and pressed a kiss to his hair with proud pats.

A month or so after that was when Arthur and Dutch and Miss Grimshaw went tumbling through the brush around their camp with their guns drawn at the sound of Bessie’s scream, only to see her clutching her face and happily wailing at the sight of Hosea kneeling in front of her, holding up a gold band in a hand-carved wooden box. Arthur bought his first suit shortly afterwards, and he, Dutch, and Miss Grimshaw found themselves all gussied up for a wedding two weeks later. Dutch was Hosea’s best man, Miss Grimshaw was Bessie’s maid of honor, and Arthur - well. As Bessie kissed his cheeks and gave him the icing from her slice of cake, Arthur felt like he had a  _ mom  _ for the first time since he was six years old. Even better than that, he still felt like he had two great fathers who loved him and would stay at his sides forever, judging by how emphatically Hosea insisted he and Bessie weren’t leaving and by how, after their tiny private "reception" of dancing like fae by the river, he caught Dutch and Hosea holding hands out in the woods, staring up at the stars.

Between his continued “man time” adventures with Dutch, Hosea and Bessie’s easy warm affection, and Miss Grimshaw’s dry fussing and lecturing, Arthur felt a bit like a rooster in a henhouse or a headline performer, the sole occupant in the middle of four spotlights, strutting around as the prodigal son and golden child of their little gang.

That all came crashing down around him when the  _ one  _ time Dutch rode out solo, he came home with a kicking, screaming, feral child thrashing in his arms.

And  _ little John Marston _ changed...  **everything.**

The filthy, greasy, ratty twelve year old with his red puffy eyes and snotty nose shattered the easy peace and routine of their camp from the very start. He was both a hitter and a biter, first off, so only Dutch or Hosea could truly touch him, and even then they came away with bloody scratches and bite-marks for their trouble. The kid had no sense of boundaries, no sense of respect, and no  _ sense  _ in his  _ fool  _ head. The instant Dutch set the kid down, he bolted straight into Arthur’s tent - to Arthur’s great dismay - and refused to come out, even for the medical attention he apparently so desperately needed. Dutch tried to jump straight in after him and had to be physically restrained by Hosea, who kept asking what the hell even happened and where the hell the boy came from as Miss Grimshaw and Bessie and Arthur all hovered in anxious confusion. Arthur had thought he’d give the kid a chance when Dutch opened his mouth and said “I came across this backwards homestead full of some demented, monstrous  _ storybook villains _ who were- They were trying to  _ hang  _ the boy!”

‘Had thought’ being the key words, because an hour later Arthur peeked through the tent flap as the other four - well, three, since Bessie was busying herself making a balanced and easy-on-the-stomach meal for the kid - were still arguing about what to do to spy the kid looking through his journal.

_ “HEY!” _

The kid actually hissed at him and threw the journal in a flailed jerk, and when Arthur dived in to grab the little bastard, the rascal darted outside and slipped into Hosea and Bessie’s tent, instead. Arthur tried to give chase, only to be tempered by Bessie’s hand gently catching his arm as he tried to run past.

“Be patient, Arthur,” Bessie said softly in that rough alto of hers, tucking his hair behind his ear. “He’s been through something really scary. That boy’s going to need all of us to be kind and patient. I know how soft you’re capable of being - try and show him that side of you, won’t you, honey? For me?”

Arthur scowled, but rapidly deflated under the full force of those big green doe eyes. “Fine.”

That promise, he reckoned, was the only reason why he didn’t throttle the kid. It was bad enough that the brat woke up screaming bloody murder in the middle of the night, but then Arthur also had to put up with Dutch’s shriek of “OW” or Hosea’s yelp of “FUCK” before the kid came careening into Arthur’s tent again, tucking himself into a corner and squating like a gargoyle with fat tears streaming down his face, prompting Copper to bark and bound over to him, wagging his tail as he licked away the salt water. 

...The sight of the ugly ring of rope burn and bruising around the kid’s neck, visible even in the dark, may have been a second reason for why Arthur couldn’t wallop him, and instead he just rolled over to let Copper deal with him.

On the third night of this ritual, Arthur felt the kid looming over him. 

“You got a problem?” he huffed, glaring over his shoulder from where he’d been trying to sleep.

The kid squinted at him. “What do the words in your book say? The squiggles next to the pictures?”

Arthur felt his face go slack in shock - those were the first words the kid had spoken since he got there - before he quickly schooled it back into a glare. “It’s my handwriting, idiot. And that ‘book’ is my goddamn journal you were snoopin’ around in.”

“You drew pictures of all the people out there,” the kid stated. “Did you talk about ‘em? What are they like?”

“Well how about ‘steada actin’ like some kinda possum for days on end you ask ‘em yourself?! Lord knows they’re fawnin’ all over you!”

“No!” the kid chirped. “I’m askin’  _ you!” _

Arthur rolled onto his back and waved his hands beseechingly at the kid to growl  _ “Why me?” _

“‘Cause you’re real with me,” the kid said, like it was obvious. “You ain’t pretendin’ to care.”

“They ain’t neither!” Arthur barked, gesturing outside.

“I don’t know that!”

“Well  _ I do-!” _ Arthur started, then realized he’d walked right into the kid’s trap. With a growling sigh, he dragged his hands down his face and sat up, making sure not to disturb Copper where the hound was sleeping on his legs. The kid looked at him with wary brown eyes in the dark, his mouth curved down in an almost pout. He was wearing new fresh clothes that Hosea had ran out and bought for him instead of his old filthy rags, though he still smelled like an outhouse since he refused to bathe or let anyone so much as wipe his face with a moist rag. He oozed grease like a slice of ham, and Arthur wrinkled his nose.

“What do you  _ think  _ they’re like?” Arthur huffed, determined not to let the kid win so easy.

“I think they’re a buncha queer killers who string pretty words real good that don’t mean nothin’.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow. “Wow, you got us! Yup, that’s them.”

The kid narrowed his eyes. “Then I’ll leave! I’ll run away!”

Arthur moved to settle back down. “Don’t let the tent flap hit ya on the way out!”

He heard the kid growl and then stomp out of his tent. Five seconds later, the kid stomped back in, then stomped in place, making Arthur smirk and sit up again. The kid crossed his arms and jutted his chin up in defiance, like his skin-and-bones ragdoll frame was anywhere near capable of being intimidating. “Tell the truth or I’ll sock ya!” the kid drawled, holding up a bony fist. Arthur rolled his eyes to the skies.

“First off,” he gruffed, slowly petting Copper’s floppy ears, “Dutch and Hosea are the best men I know. They took me in and raised me and gave me everything I have, and they’re good and kind and fair. You can trust ‘em. Second, Miss Grimshaw is the hardest woman I’ve ever met, but she’s got a good heart in her and means well, and if she ever screams at ya or throws you across camp, that just means she cares. If she don’t care about ya, you’ll know. And ol’ Bessie?” Arthur huffed. “Pretty sure she’s an angel come down to walk the Earth. So there. You ain’t gotta bother me no more, now  _ git.” _

“What about you?” the kid prompted. “What are you like?”

Arthur dragged a hand over his eyes. “I’m the feller who’s gonna beat yer ass if you don’t let me get some goddamn sleep. Now get outta my tent already, kid!” 

“John.”

Arthur froze halfway through the motion of flopping back down. He looked over his shoulder again and squinted exhaustedly. “What?”

The kid jutted his chin up again. “My name’s John Marston. And I like sleeping in your tent, you have a dog.”

Copper wagged his tail in his sleep.

Arthur huffed. “Arthur Morgan. Now shut the  _ fuck  _ up and  _ sleep  _ already, damn.” And John, thankfully, did.

After that, John warily opened up to the others. He let Miss Grimshaw haul him off for a bath, he let Bessie ask him what he liked to eat and make tea for him, he let Hosea treat the infected cuts and scrapes on his neck and arms with gentle caring hands, and he sat next to Dutch and let the man talk endlessly at him about the meaning to be young and free in America, about how nations are built by the hands of new generations, and about the importance of the outlaw lifestyle, and Arthur felt his stomach sink into something dark and ugly when he heard Dutch say “that’s where you come in” and “you’re like me that way” and call John “a true protégé in the making.”

John, as thanks to Arthur letting him sleep in his tent, became even more of an insufferable bastard, continually trying to peek into his journal or pick up all of his pictures or string out all of his clothes or steal his father’s hat. Arthur also once woke up to a woolly worm crawling over his nose as the snotty brat laughed his ass off, and it became a regular occurrence for Arthur to chase John through the camp only for Dutch or Hosea to step in and diffuse the fight with bright smiles and fond chuckles. Dutch almost always took John’s side, braying “Lay off him, Arthur! Let the boy have his fun!” while Hosea took a far more nuanced approach by scolding Arthur for resorting to problem-solving via violence while also sitting John down and telling him it wasn’t okay to touch or look through anyone else’s things without permission.

“You know,” Hosea mused one day, settling down onto a log beside Arthur to eat Bessie’s latest dish as Arthur was glowering at the kid where he was skulking around the edge of camp with a stick,  _ surely  _ looking for more bugs to stick into Arthur’s things, “I’m shocked you and John don’t get along better.”

Arthur scoffed and side-eyed him. “Why’d you say that? He’s a damn  _ menace.” _

A warm, glowing, conspiratory smile grew on Hosea’s face.  _ “I _ seem to remember…” he drawled slowly, poking at Arthur’s arm, “a certain  _ other  _ youngster who once harassed the ever-loving shit out of a  _ certain other _ fella once upon a time-” his pokes were getting threateningly close to Arthur’s tickle spots “-with things like putting dirt in his boots, stealing his food- there may even have been a certain  _ frog  _ at one point-” 

Hosea poked him dead in the zone that made Arthur squirm and flail, and Arthur growled out a low, frustrated  _ “Hoseaaa” _ before launching himself up to storm away in a huff, leaving the man to cackle behind him.

What Hosea didn’t understand was that John was  _ nothing  _ like him. Arthur’s actions had  _ purpose _ \- he remembered that much, at least. Vaguely. But John was just a whirlwind of pointless acting out, and sure, he’d almost been hanged, but that was  _ one time. _ Arthur was tortured by his own father for six years, whereas John, as much as Dutch was able to coax out of the boy, lost his parents without really knowing them and got shut up in an orphanage that he kept running away from ‘cause it was ‘dumb,’ so truly, what the hell was John’s excuse?

And  _ Dutch… _

Dutch couldn’t  _ shut the fuck up _ about John, and John could do no wrong in the man’s eyes. Day in and day out, Dutch was giving John his unwavering attention, teaching him how to work with and ride on Empress or read or write, and everything was  _ John  _ this,  _ John  _ that,  _ John’s doing so well, John’s such a natural, John has so much talent, John John John John John John John. _ The boy ignited something in Dutch, a kind of subtle and indescribable light that unlocked something in the man. Something that  _ Arthur  _ never got, not in all his time with Dutch, not even at his youngest. Arthur saw that light most clearly when he went with Dutch and John to a general store to buy some random necessities, and the store clerk noticed John pocket some candy. Without a thought, the clerk went right up to Dutch and went “Sir, your son just put some merchandise in his pocket” - and something  _ lit up _ in Dutch’s eyes as he turned towards John. And  _ that- _

That was when Arthur decided that John Marston was truly the most wretched,  _ vile  _ creature to ever walk the Earth.

Because Arthur- Arthur  _ never  _ got mistaken for Dutch’s son by strangers. They couldn’t even play the role of father and son for cons, because even Hosea once said  _ “Oh please, Dutch, you look nothing alike, and when you’re clean-shaven your baby face makes you look younger than he does!” _ It always brought the reality that Dutch was only eight years older than Arthur under a harsh spotlight, along with the fact that it was quite literally impossible for Dutch to be Arthur’s biological father. But John? Dutch was eighteen years older than John. They both looked alike, too - with their dark hair and brown eyes and sun-tanned skin. Dutch… Dutch really could have been John’s father.

And it all made Arthur feel, not for the first time, an uneasy fear that while he loved Dutch like a father - Dutch loved Arthur like a brother. Or even just a friend.

Things came to a head with John that August when Dutch and Bessie thought it would be a grand old time if they all went to the Illinois State Fair. Arthur was instantly assaulted by a whole ungodly assortment of sounds and smells and movement as soon as they all dismounted their horses in a chaotic ocean of horses and wagons and people,  _ hundreds upon hundreds, _ as far as the eye could see, and it was all Arthur could do to keep himself grounded by fiddling with his neckerchief. Their group tried to stick together for about an hour in the middle of the cacophonous din until they got to the carnival game area, where John kept stopping to stare at all the offered prizes, and when his eyes became transfixed on a particular wooden horse toy - the top prize - Arthur tried to rib “You  _ still  _ ain’t outgrown toys yet?” but before he could even finish the sentence, Dutch was pushing Arthur aside and pressing a penny onto the booth sill.

“A boy needs to be a  _ boy, _ Arthur,” Dutch guffawed, gesturing for the booth runner to hand him a set of rings.

Arthur held his hands out in an offended, incredulous gesture. “You ain’t never got  _ me  _ no toys, and I turned out fine!”

“Are you sure about that?” Hosea called from where he, Bessie, and Miss Grimshaw were watching, and Miss Grimshaw snorted while Bessie swatted his stomach.

Dutch threw Hosea a fond, conspiratory grin while Arthur leveled him with a glare, but then John piped up from where he was glowering at the ground by Dutch’s hip to say “Dutch, I… I don’t really want it. You’d need to hit that far back bottle six times and they cheat, and ‘sides, it’s- dumb and stupid, so you can… take your penny back.”

Dutch’s eyes widened and he scoffed, resituating his stance like he was about to square a man off in a duel. “Son, I will win you that wooden horse if it’s the last thing I do! I will  _ not  _ be defeated by some carnie’s tricks. There’s a secret to it, watch!” With a wink, he picked up the first ring, and with a grand fling and twist of his hips, the ring flew straight to the smallest, furthest bottle and caught on its rim, then- fell off and to the side. Dutch’s nostrils flared.  _ “What?!” _

Arthur rolled his eyes and clapped Dutch on the back. “I’ll leave you to it,” he drawled, heading back over to Miss Grimshaw and Hosea and Bessie where they were giggling. 

Hosea nuzzled the side of Bessie’s face and toyed with the sleeve of her dress, gesturing his head towards the other booths. “Would you like me to try and win  _ you  _ a prize, my star?”

Bessie fondly framed his face in her hands, and both of their gazes sparkled. “You’re the only prize I ever need, baby.”

Arthur mock-gagged while Miss Grimshaw deadpanned “I’m going to leave you clowns in exchange for some proper, respectable folk,” before wandering off towards a gaggle of clowns.

Arthur tried his best to stick with Hosea and Bessie around the fair - he really did - and for a while he managed to put up with all the times they got distracted gazing into each other’s eyes or rubbing their noses together thanks to them going to see the pig races or looking at the cattle show, but then they passed by a long row of craft booths and Bessie started hemming and hawing over a myriad of trinkets for over twenty minutes, and while she and Hosea were intensely examining a pearl dove brooch, Arthur wandered off in the desperate hope of finding something worthwhile to justify his continued existence in that noisy, smelly, stupid fair.

He found it in a display barn where a whole bunch of horses were kept in temporary stalls to be judged on how much they exemplified their respective breeds. Their coats were painstakingly groomed and shining and the whole barn smelled like horse sweat, hay, and gentle soap. To Arthur, it may as well have been his own private paradise, a way to stop the rapid disintegration of his nerves as he ignored all the  _ Do not touch the horses _ signs to rub their noses and pat their cheeks.

He jumped a foot in the air but did  _ not  _ yelp when he heard John’s voice suddenly say “Boadicea is an Ar-duh-nay, right?”

Arthur whirled on him. “It’s pronounced Ar- _ den. _ I woulda thought the  _ Golden Boy _ woulda known that, since you’re apparently so goddamn smart.” He looked around for Dutch, then frowned and glared down at John when he didn’t see the man. “Why ain’t you with  _ Dutch?” _

John shrugged. “Dutch is  _ boring.” _

A surprised bark of laughter burst from Arthur’s throat. “What? Oh, that’s rich, coming from Dutch’s lap dog.”

John punched him square in the stomach - a pathetic effort that Arthur easily shrugged off. “I ain’t no dog!” the boy snarled. 

Arthur shrugged and leaned against the stall door of the Tennessee Walker he’d been petting. “Coulda fooled me, the way you eat out of his palm.”

John punched him again. “Why’re you bein’  _ mean?!” _

_ “‘Cause you’re Dutch’s favorite!” _ Arthur snapped all of the sudden, standing up to his full height with his fists clenched, and all the horses around them tossed their heads.

John didn’t miss a beat.  _ “Well you’re Hosea’s!” _ he yelled right back, tears gathering in his eyes.

All the hot air got swept out of Arthur’s sails. He heaved a breath and blinked a couple times before going, “What?”

John seemed furious at himself for crying and scrubbed angrily at his eyes. “Dutch is the only one who wants me around,” he croaked. “I heard all the others. They wanna send me to a home. And you hate me. Dutch is the only one who thinks I’m fit to be in the gang. And Hosea acts nice, and tries to teach me stuff, but he only ever wants to spend time with  _ you.” _

Arthur reeled. Sure, Hosea took to spending a lot more time with him, both alone and with Bessie, but that was just because Hosea kept catching him staring out at Dutch with John during the times that used to be slotted for Arthur and Dutch to go out and spend time together, and Hosea was sick of Arthur going out alone to start bar brawls in its stead. And Arthur  _ knew  _ Hosea. He knew the incredible care and interest and concern the man showed towards John - and John, John didn’t even  _ earn that, _ Hosea just gave it to him right away, while Arthur had to work his  _ ass  _ off to earn the man’s love.

Why did John just get  _ handed everything? _

“You don’t know shit,” Arthur gruffed, his eyes stinging, “and you don’t know how good you got it.”

_ “You _ don’t know shit!” John countered, slapping at him. “I’ve been second-best to you this entire time! Everyone compares me to you  _ all  _ the  _ time!” _

“Oh yeah? Well they sure as hell give you their  _ attention  _ all the time!”

“Dutch won’t shut up about you and keeps saying you learnt stuff faster than me!”

“And Hosea loves you the same amount it took me six fucking months to get to!”

Arthur’s yell finally faded out into the air, and both boys stared at each other, blinking in confusion as they registered what the other said.

“Hey,” snapped a stable hand, stalking towards them with a rake, “stop yellin’ and get the fuck outta here!”

“Sorry,” Arthur muttered immediately, moving to leave the barn with a guiding hand on John’s back.

Once they were out back amongst the milling throngs of people and afforded the relative privacy of blending in with the crowd, Arthur turned back to John and squinted down at him. “Dutch… talks about me?” he asked, incredulously.

“Yeah?” John squinted back up at him and wrinkled his nose like Arthur was stupid. Then, John blinked a few times and said, “Hosea… wasn’t like this with you when they took you in?”

Arthur snorted and shook his head. “Naw. He was a hard, stony bastard.” A few people bumped into them and cursed at them, so Arthur gestured for John to walk with him in an aimless direction. “He’s changed a lot since Bessie came along. You know he used to hardly ever smile? He used to only do it for Dutch. Now he does it at like… flowers and sunsets and shit.”

John made a thoughtful noise. “What about Dutch? What was he like with you?”

Arthur frowned and furrowed his brow in thought. Memories of the man’s warm and proud presence as he taught Arthur how to ride and read and shoot settled into his chest like a heavy embrace. He still kept the portrait they took near his bed at all times, with Dutch’s hand on his shoulder and his proud eyes. “...Dutch wasn’t really all that different with me than he is with you. Not really.” Arthur’s brow furrowed deeper. “‘Cept he fusses over you more.”

John huffed. “I don’t need no fussin’.”

“Sure you don’t,” Arthur drawled. “You just  _ look  _ nine.”

“I’m  _ twelve,  _ so shut the fuck up!” John brayed.

“Sure!” Arthur chortled. “Says the kid who wants a toy horse!”

John made a frustrated growl and punched his hip as they walked. “I kept tryin’ to tell Dutch I don’t want it no more but he won’t listen and just tells me I do!”

Arthur genuinely laughed at that - and surprisingly, it wasn’t at the expense of John. “Yeah, that’s good ol’ Dutch all right. That won’t ever change, I can testify to that.”

“Is this why you hate me?” John said suddenly. “‘Cause Dutch don’t act different but Hosea does?”

Arthur blinked and screwed his face up as he thought. When the kid put it like that, forced him to  _ think, _ it all really did seem… petty. “I don’t…  _ hate  _ you, kid,” Arthur sighed. Or at least he didn’t deserve it. “Just… for a long time it was just me, Dutch, an’ Hosea. I feel…” he squinted. Territorial? That made him feel a bit bratty. He was _ twenty-two years _ old, for Christ’s sake. “I dunno… protective?”

John snorted. “What am  _ I  _ gonna do to ‘em?”

“‘Sides clawin’ ‘em up and bitin’ ‘em?”

John got really really quiet after that, and when Arthur looked to his side, the boy wasn’t there. Turning around, he saw the kid looking forlornly down at the trash-littered ground. “I don’t mean to do stuff like that,” John mumbled.

Arthur hesitated for a long moment as he felt the kid continue to wiggle his way closer to his heart. With an exasperated sigh, he moved to John’s side again so he wouldn’t get ran over by folk too distracted to see him. “Y’know, the first time Dutch and Hosea took me out fishing? I uh.” Arthur stuck his hands in his pockets. “I got so frustrated that I couldn’t do it right that I uh… my mind went to a darker place and I just. Completely lost control of myself. I gave Dutch a bloody nose when he tried to touch me.”

John was suddenly staring up at him with huge, almost hopeful eyes. “Really?”

Arthur bit his lip and looked around, then squatted down to get closer to John’s level. “I still get moments like that sometimes,” he whispered. “Just between you and me.”

John blinked owlishly at him, then slowly nodded his head. Arthur stood up and got them moving once more, his hand on John’s back again to guide him through the crowd. John shrugged him off and said, “What were you doin’ before Dutch and Hosea?”

Arthur shrugged. “Livin’ on the streets. Stealin’ and beggin’ to survive. I used to have a father, but he died. Hanged, for larceny. Wish he’d gone sooner. Used to have a mama, too, but she got real sick and passed away. Dutch, Hosea, Grimshaw, and Bessie are the closest things I have to family now.” He looked down at the kid. “What about you? Askin’ all these personal questions. What’s your story?”

John shrugged. “My Ma died givin’ birth to me. My Pa was… okay. He died in a bar fight. I’ve bounced around orphanages a lot. No one’s ever wanted me, and I keep running away. Everyone I’ve ran into has been  _ horrible.” _

“How so?” 

John got real quiet again and stopped walking, staring at the ground. His expression grew pinched. “I don’t wanna talk about it,” he mumbled again, rubbing at his arm and his neck.

Arthur bit his lip, then took a deep breath and put his hands on his hips as he looked around. He spotted a massive crowd around a colorfully painted kiosk labeled  _ Miraculously Delicious Ice Cream! _ with two painted rosy-cheeked children beaming at what looked like swirls of cream in beige cones. Arthur never heard of such a thing, but he saw adults and children alike skipping away from it with ‘ice cream’ in their fists, licking or biting it and lighting up in delight.

“Hey, c’mere,” Arthur said, gesturing at John to follow him.

“Why?”

“Just  _ c’mere,” _ Arthur gruffed, reaching into his satchel to pull out some change. He walked up to the kiosk and eyed the list of flavors as he felt John step up to his side, looking between Arthur and all the ice cream.

“What can I get for ya, sonny?” asked the rosy-cheeked bald man in an apron at the head of the kiosk.

“Uh…” Arthur hedged. The list of flavors was overwhelming, as were the people trying to crowd in beside him. He didn’t even know what he was truly getting into. “Me and my uh… little brother here ain’t never had this so uh, give me two of whatever flavor you think’s best!”

“Two vanillas comin’ right up!” chirped the man, and seconds later, he was holding out two cones full of thick white frozen cream to Arthur. Arthur awkwardly shoved the coins at him and took them, nodding his thanks, then hurried to get out of the way and off to the side towards a bench, where he sat down. John was in front of him half a second later, eyeing him warily, and Arthur held out the second cone to him.

John blinked in shock. “I don’t have nothin’ to pay you back with.”

“Shut the hell up and sit down and eat your weird ice thing,” Arthur gruffed. “It’s a peace offerin’.”

John blinked again, then slowly took the offered cone and sat down beside Arthur. They both met each other’s eyes, then slowly licked the ice cream.

They froze.

Rolled it around their mouths, felt it melt. Swallowed. Smacked their lips.

Then, both of them took massive bites out of it at the same time with happy grunts and crinkled eyes, as John kicked his feet back and forth on the bench while Arthur leaned back and splayed his legs out.

They were both whining and clutching their eyes at a mysterious simultaneous headache when they heard Hosea, Bessie, and Miss Grimshaw’s distant voices frantically calling  _ “John? John?! John!”  _ Arthur managed to gather enough of his senses to wave them all down, and after the older adults all got ice creams themselves, they went off to reunite with Dutch still grinding away at the ring toss game, who crowed  _ “I told y’all he was fine!” _

After the fair, Arthur and John managed to broker a tentative peace. John seemed to suddenly notice the way Hosea kept slipping him candy and sweets or ate suspiciously slowly so that he could slide his leftovers off onto John’s plate after he finished licking it clean, and Arthur saw the two of them together more and more often, with Hosea taking him out on nature walks or guiding him through mixing up messy salves with his hands or reading to him. In consequence, whether it be because John was absent entirely from camp or because Hosea shooed him away, Dutch ended up meandering up to Arthur more and more to knock shoulders and talk about possible scores, and Bessie managed to rope them both into frequent games of cards during the times Hosea managed to squirrel away with John. Nights also became more and more peaceful, with John waking up screaming less and less from his spot in the corner of Arthur’s tent, curled around that wooden horse of his. He barely had nightmares at all after Bessie gifted him a handmade quilt.

Arthur had just barely started considering a happy future for their group of six when...  _ everything... _ started changing in ways so brutal and devastating that they could only ever end in permanent loss, and they just  _ kept losing. _ And with each of them, there was always something that John said that stuck with him - that planted a marker in his mind and burned the moment into his brain, no matter how hard he tried to erase all the memories.

The first of which was John’s young voice asking, “Are we all gonna die?”

Arthur looked down at the kid where he was wrapped up in his quilt with his wooden horse at Arthur’s side. They were all laying down in the grass beside the horses - their last three surviving horses, Boadicea, Silver Dollar, and Lady, with Empress reduced to nothing more than a corpse riddled with bullets - in a desperate attempt to get at least a couple hours rest before they all mounted up again and kept running hard for the hills. He could hear Bessie crying in fear into Hosea’s chest not far off, little muffled whimpers mingled with his quivering whispers of comfort, both of them trying to be quiet lest they be heard. Miss Grimshaw was blacked out somewhere between them, and Dutch - Dutch was sitting up and gazing out at the night a ways off with Copper, wall-eyed, clutching his Schofield with shaking hands still stained red from Empress’s blood, the bloody bandage surrounding his bullet-wound still peeking out of his rumpled collar.

“...No,” Arthur whispered, turning his gaze back down to John. “No. We ain’t gonna die. It’s gonna be fine.”

John stared morosely up at him. “You’re lyin’.”

Arthur tried his best to glare at him, but couldn’t quite manage it. “No I ain’t. Now get some sleep, you need it.”

John frowned even more. “You still got… bits… in your hair,” he whispered.

Arthur blinked. With a slow, wary hand, he brought it up to his hair where John was pointing and felt around until he felt the telltale crunch of dried blood and - some other things. He tugged the debris out of the tangles and inspected it. Bits of Conner O’Driscoll’s skull and brain sat in his hand, and with a shudder, Arthur wiped it off on the grass and fumbled for his handkerchief again, dousing it in the last of his water from his waterskin before frantically wiping it through his hair. His eyes drifted and snagged on Dutch’s, who was looking over at him with a look of… something that could almost be regret. Or maybe even fear.

“I’m serious,” Arthur whispered once more. “Get some sleep. I’m goin’ on watch. I promise I won’t let nothin’ happen to any of us.”

“Okay,” John murmured, sinking further into his quilt and clutching his wooden horse tighter.

Arthur carefully crept his way over to sit beside Dutch. They both sat in silence for a long minute, listening to the night, looking at anything but each other as Arthur struggled to find words.

“You okay, son?” Dutch eventually asked, his voice quiet and uncertain.

Arthur finally wet his lips and swallowed, running his fingers over and through each other. “I didn’t… I-I never meant for… I’m sorry...”

Dutch finally turned his head to look at him, and when Arthur glanced at his eyes, they were filled with a determined fire. “If I was back there lookin’ at him standing over you with that knife, knowing killin’ him would lead to this? I’d do it all over again,” Dutch said lowly. He lifted a heavy hand to grasp Arthur’s shoulder and rubbed it firmly, making Arthur sway a little. “Because no one.  _ Touches. _ My  _ family.” _

Arthur stilled the movement of his hands and clenched them together, tightly. He closed his eyes, nodded slightly, then leaned into Dutch’s touch.

The second marker was John’s voice asking, “Do Dutch and Hosea hate each other?”

Arthur looked up at John from where he’d been furiously sketching Copper in exquisite detail where the hound was anxiously standing guard at the mouth of his tent. From outside, he could hear the sound of Dutch and Hosea’s enraged screams cracking through the camp and reverberating off the trees.

It had all started a couple months after they finally stopped running from Colm O’Driscoll. Bessie had been audibly crying herself to sleep for weeks, and one morning, after the first silent night in a while where Bessie managed to sleep fitfully, Arthur had watched from where he was chopping firewood as Hosea carefully picked his way through the frosted grass and knocked on Dutch’s tent post, stifling a couple wheezing coughs into his elbow. The tent flap slowly eased open, and Hosea stepped into the tent, where the flap promptly shut behind him. Arthur sighed heavily and returned to chopping wood to replenish the fires, and right when he was about to chop the last block he heard… some unholy, ungodly sound come from Dutch’s tent, and some seething dark mimic of Dutch’s voice bellowed  _ “LEAVE?!” _

A raw and aching fissure split through the camp at that moment - with Hosea and Bessie on one side, and Dutch and Miss Grimshaw on the other. Hosea and Bessie wanted to leave the outlaw life and go straight - build a home, settle down, maybe even have a baby. Miss Grimshaw made it abundantly clear to both of them that she thought they were both stupid suicidal fools, and Dutch, well… something dark and ugly came roaring out of Dutch each time the topic came up, like he was Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, and that scary part of himself wouldn’t go away until either Hosea backed down or Bessie came running up to them both in tears and brokenly begged them to stop fighting. 

Bessie had single-handedly stopped their brittle and fragile little gang from being torn apart by the force of Dutch and Hosea’s roaring clashes - had even tried to insist that maybe they should stay permanently at one point - but that only seemed to steel Hosea’s resolve. It left all of them hanging in an eternal state of perpetual limbo, where Dutch and Hosea being present in camp at the same time made the air hang thick and uneasy, and whenever either man began stalking towards the other, John came running up to Arthur as Arthur turned tail and ran to hide in his tent or vault up onto Boadicea, pulling John up with him.

Their worst fight came late at night. Arthur spied Hosea explode out of Dutch’s tent and hurriedly stride into the treeline and the shadows of the night while Dutch’s silhouette in the lantern light slowly sank down onto his cot and held his head in his hands. Glancing back at John’s sleeping form and eyeing Dutch’s tent to make sure the man wouldn’t pursue, Arthur slipped out of his tent and followed Hosea as quietly as he could.

He finally spotted Hosea down by the little creek near their camping spot, frozen over from the night chill, collapsed onto his knees and hugging himself while rocking back and forth. Arthur dared to creep closer, and then, over the sounds of the night, he heard a sound that would haunt him for the rest of his days: 

Hosea sobbing, uncontrollably. 

It was the second time he’d ever seen the man cry. Not since he cradled Arthur against his chest and promised to never abandon him.

Arthur heard a twig snap behind him, and he whirled around to spy John. He whipped the kid into cover a millisecond before Hosea whipped around to check his surroundings, his sobs and breath frozen in his throat, before gradually easing into weeping again. Arthur looked down at John, and John looked up at Arthur, and both of them cringed at each other as their eyes stung. 

On their way back into Arthur’s tent, John threw his wooden horse into the fire.

In that particular moment, Arthur was shading furiously, rubbing the graphite harder and harder as he listened to them scream  _ “Don’t you dare fucking call her that word again!” “I’m only calling it how I see it!” “The only one who’s  _ poison  _ around here is  _ you!”  _ “Me?! I gave you the best years of my life, I gave you all of my firsts, I’ve known you for twelve goddamn years while she-” “I will beat you black and blue if you say one more word, van der Linde!” _ until he heard the lead of his pencil break.

“They’re not supposed to hate each other,” he said quietly. He snapped his journal shut and threw it across his tent, burying his face in his arms as he fisted his hands into his hair and desperately fought to stop the voices of the two men he loved so dearly from morphing into that of his father’s. He only started breathing when he felt John warily wrap around his shoulders.

The third marker was John’s voice asking, “Do you think Hosea and Bessie have forgot about us?”

Arthur looked up from where he’d been cleaning his cattleman. He, John, and Dutch were all sitting around the camp’s game table, with John doing his best to read through a book on his own while Dutch sat leaned back in his chair, smoking a cigar.

Arthur curled in on himself and looked away, frowning against the sensation of his chest feeling carved out and hollow, bearing two yawning voids where Hosea and Bessie were once nestled. A stabbing pain flashed through his stomach when Dutch blew out a stream of smoke and drawled, “Well, John, since they wanted a  _ blood  _ family so bad, more than they wanted any of  _ us, _ I reckon they  _ have.” _

The jingle of spurs was the only warning Dutch got before Annabelle snatched his cigar out of his hand and slung herself up onto the table in front of him, planting her boots on his thighs while she smoked his cigar with a sharp-toothed smirk. 

Hosea had brought Annabelle in about five months before he and Bessie finally left, and Annabelle asserted her presence so forcefully into the group that it was almost like Dutch didn’t have any say in the matter. Dutch had taken one look at the short and muscular woman in her black French dress shirt and blue jeans, her steel-toed boots and silver chains, and the twin black-and-silver volcanic pistols sitting in her holsters before looking at her face, sizing him up with critical blue eyes through her brunette ringlet curls, before slowly removing his hat and offering to kiss her hand. Annabelle looked at him like he was shit on her heel, but before the introduction could fall through, Hosea urged her to repeat something she said to him earlier - a quote from Evelyn Miller. Dutch’s eyes lit up as he jumped on the quote, slapping his hat back on his head as he immediately started gushing about the surrounding passages, and something in Annabelle’s eyes lit up the same. The two of them scurried off to his tent and his book collection like two kids excited to play with toys, and before Arthur knew it, Dutch and Annabelle were suddenly…  _ together. _

At that moment, Annabelle took a deep drag before sinking her hand into Dutch’s hair and violently twisting, making his mouth pop open so she could kiss him harshly, breathing the smoke into his mouth. She pulled back and stubbed the cigar out on the table, flicking it onto the ground as Dutch reeled backwards, blowing the smoke out of his nose and looking like he just got slapped across the face. Annabelle let go of his hair and twisted herself around to face all three of them where Arthur was wrinkling his nose and John was making mock-gagging noises.

“Hosea and Bessie love all of us, you stupid idiots,” she drawled in her faint accent. “They didn’t want anything  _ more, _ they wanted something  _ less. _ My darling Bessie’s constitution isn’t cut out for a life of bloodshed, and it’s as simple as that.” She wrinkled her nose down at her hand and then wiped it on her jeans, turning to Dutch. “And your hair is greasy. You are disgusting.”

“It’s pomade,” Dutch said faintly, looking down and away, a flush to his cheeks that Arthur suspected may have been from shame rather than arousal, and not at the grease comment.

“Whatever helps you sleep at night, kotik,” Annabelle purred, shoving his head as she hopped off the table and sashayed towards little Tilly where she was learning how to wash clothes from Miss Grimshaw. She looked over her shoulder and yelled “Now stop being a bunch of pissy crybabies and do some fucking work!”

The fourth marker was John’s voice asking, “Is Hosea going to die?”

Arthur looked down to his sides - John on one side, and Tilly on the other. Both of them were around the age of fifteen, almost fully grown, but they both looked so devastatingly young where they sat staring up at Arthur with mute fear in their eyes. Arthur had the same mute fear in his heart, though he didn’t know how well he showed it. He must have been doing at least some kind of job at hiding it, considering how often John or Tilly drifted towards him seeking reassurance that he was loath to provide. That he didn’t  _ want  _ to provide. Because the dirty truth of it all was that Arthur desperately wanted reassurance himself, that  _ Arthur  _ felt like a scared kid, and all he wanted was for someone to hold him - for  _ Hosea  _ to hold him and tell him everything was going to be okay.

It’d been four months since everyone in camp dropped what they were doing when they heard Annabelle yell “Who is there?!” from where she'd been standing watch. After a few long beats of silence where Dutch, Arthur, Miss Grimshaw, and John hovered with their hands around their guns, they all finally made out a lone rider walking towards them through the shade of the trees on a silver Turkoman. Dutch relaxed and released a roll of slow laughter as he sauntered forwards, holding his hands out to crow “Look who’s back!” As he got closer, however, he stopped and visibly peered into the distance to look for Lady. That was when Hosea started listing in his saddle, and Arthur could see all the smugness and glee fly out of Dutch’s back like a fleeing bird as Hosea collapsed onto the ground.  _ “Hosea?!” _ he called out, frantic, just as Annabelle hissed out “Shit,” and suddenly all of them were sprinting towards him.

Dutch went crashing to his knees as he frantically checked Hosea over for wounds, and Arthur was at his side the very next heartbeat, taking in as much of him as he could. Miss Grimshaw, John, Tilly, and Annabelle gathered around him a few seconds later, pale and bewildered, and they all watched in mute confusion as Hosea heaved a broken sob and fumblingly clawed himself up Dutch’s shirt to cling to the man, reeking of alcohol. Dutch stiffened and froze, staring down at Hosea with his mouth agape as the man began crying into his vest so hard he could barely breathe, clutching at his shirt like it was a lifeline as his entire frame shook. Hosea looked-... unwell. His hair was unkempt, his clothes were filthy and rumpled, and dark harsh circles were carved deep under his eyes. Dutch’s hands slowly drifted to delicately rest on Hosea’s back, and stiltedly, his voice low and unsteady, Dutch prompted, “Hosea… what…”

Hosea just quaked with more sobs and didn’t respond.

Arthur wet his lips and swallowed thickly, looking around them once more in a desperate attempt to spot Lady’s pinto coat, to spy Bessie’s strawberry-blonde hair. After a long series of seconds dragged by and there was still no sign of her, Arthur’s breaths picked up even more than they already were and he turned back to Hosea, reaching out a shaking hand to clutch at his elbow. “Hosea… Where… W-Where’s Bessie?”

And Hosea  _ screamed. _

Arthur once came across a fox with its leg crushed in a trap. Its leg was bent at a sickening, unnatural angle where it was held in the metal jaws, blood streaming out of it while the bone poked out through the skin, and the poor thing wailed and bellowed in a way that sounded like it had no place belonging in the throat of anything living. 

Hosea’s scream was somehow even worse. And all at once - as Miss Grimshaw's hand flew over her mouth, as John's face went blank, as Tilly's expression crumpled, as Annabelle swore, as Dutch's eyes clouded over and grew far away, and as a sob broke free from Arthur's throat - they knew what happened.

All of them grieved over Bessie in their own way. But Hosea… Hosea was  _ destroyed. _ He constantly sought refuge at the bottom of any bottle of alcohol he could get his hands on so he could stagger or lounge around camp in a delirious, forgetful fugue, and as time passed, they all noticed him losing weight and that his color was slowly becoming sickly, a cross between a ruddy rose and unhealthy yellow that clashed against the black and purple bags under his eyes. His hair also started falling out, wafting down in visible strands whenever he turned his head too quick or the wind blew too hard, and whenever Hosea ran his hands through his hair they almost always came away with patchy clumps. As much as Annabelle and Miss Grimshaw hated the sight, they hated the sight of Hosea sobering up far more, when the man would retreat to his tent and weep for hours, refusing to eat or drink, or stare morosely into nothing with a haunting look in his eyes, or slowly roll the barrel of his cattleman around as if in a trance. Arthur caught both women slipping Hosea alcohol when he got like that multiple times. And Dutch - Dutch hated it all. The man went damn near insane, and rapidly oscillated between leaving camp at every opportunity or manically manhandling Hosea around to go out with him for “a talk” or “some personal time.” Hosea always came back promising he’d swear off the bottle, only to be guzzling the amber liquid three hours to three days later, setting Dutch off again in a spiral of rage or panic.

Arthur looked over at Hosea where he was slowly drinking a bottle of bourbon, staring hollow-eyed into the dancing flames of the main fire, and gently clasped the knees of Tilly and John.

“Hosea’ll be all right,” he said roughly.  _ Because he has to be. _

The fifth marker was John’s voice, gruff and shaken, asking, “Are we… are they… Arthur… What do we do if we lose Dutch and Hosea?”

“We  _ ain’t gonna lose ‘em,” _ Arthur snapped immediately, whirling on the teenager where he sat next to Arthur on his cot and seizing him by the lapels. Copper whined and jumped up between them to lick Arthur’s face, making him release John and the tension in his body like too much steam in a too small tank. With a long, shaky sigh, Arthur rubbed at the hound’s ears and buried his face in his hand.

It was three weeks after they buried Annabelle in a hurried, makeshift grave, and two weeks and three days since they finally stopped running from Colm. Again.

And Dutch wasn’t… Dutch… Dutch wasn’t taking it well.

He hadn’t gone down the path Hosea had, losing himself to alcohol or any other substance, sleeping all day and lying morosely like he’d given up. Instead, Dutch seemed to have the opposite problem. Arthur had still failed to witness the man sleep. Nor had he ever witnessed the man cry. Instead, Dutch was like a never-ending storm, pushing and running them hard above and beyond their limits, pushing himself above and beyond his own, and hardly seeming to notice. He talked a lot. Screamed a lot too, like they were stupid, or screamed at nothing before running off by himself. Most of the things that came out of his mouth hardly made any sense. He also seemed to keep getting himself injured somehow, judging by how blood stains kept mysteriously appearing on his clothes and their medical supplies kept slowly yet steadily dwindling.

Hosea, by some miracle, seemed to become possessed by the spirit of his old self. Arthur frequently saw the man chugging water or slamming back black coffee, following Dutch around, always at his side, talking almost as endlessly as Dutch did, and even as his hands shook or he had to keep running off to gag, Hosea held himself in a straight and rigid posture of command and control with clear eyes that held a promise they’d all stopped hoping for long ago. Arthur, John, and Tilly desperately clung to that aura around Hosea like a life-raft out in a stormy sea - as did Miss Grimshaw, even. None of them clung quite as desperately as Dutch - Hosea was the only thing capable of clearing the clouds that clogged the man’s eyes, and Dutch looked at Hosea, fully present with them all for the first time in two years, like the man was the manifestation of everything good in the world. If Hosea buckled now...

Arthur looked at John where the boy’d thrown himself on the ground and skittered away from him after being seized, and the sight made a brick of guilt settle low and heavy in Arthur’s gut. “I’m sorry,” he muttered, leaning his head against Copper’s. “That just… hit a bit close to home, s’all.”

John blinked owlishly at him from the floor, then crossed his legs and rested his elbows on his knees. “...You’re scared too?” he asked, hesitantly.

“Of course I’m scared,” Arthur said roughly. Images of Annabelle flashed behind his eyes again and he slammed his eyes shut as he shook his head to dispel them, only for his still-fresh grief over Bessie to float to the surface. A wave of nausea washed over him and Arthur sighed, scrubbing a hand over his face. “Dutch and Hosea…” Arthur pursed his lips to keep the bottom one from trembling. “I don’t know what I’d do if either one of ‘em d-...”

John slowly tucked his knees to his chest and held them. “We…” his brow pinched. “We’ll always have  _ each other, _ though. ...Right?”

Arthur looked at John - and really  _ looked  _ at him. At his wide, earnest brown eyes. At the way his cheeks were gaunt no longer from malnutrition but by the sheer act of growing up. At the scruffy goatee sprouting out of his face. At the muscle the boy had managed to put on. At sixteen years old, there wasn’t really much ‘boy’ left in John - but looking at him, Arthur still saw that same scared little kid he was when they first met.

Arthur knew there was a scared little fourteen-year-old still hiding in himself, too.

Arthur took a deep breath, then pat Copper twice on the head before moving down to sit on the ground next to John. “Sure,” he said gently. “You’re kinda like a little brother to me, y’know. Annoying as hell and dumb as rocks, but… You got me in your corner. No matter what happens.”

And John… smiled.

It was a sight that made the feeling of sickening dread in Arthur’s core, impossibly, ease.

The sixth marker was the sound of John’s reedy whisper asking, “Is Arthur going to be okay?”

Arthur was barely conscious from where he was laying on his cot with his head in Hosea’s lap and Copper curled up against his stomach. He’d cried himself into blacking out a few times earlier, and judging by his current situation, he figured he must have passed out from exhaustion and stress and grief. He wondered vaguely who brought him there, if anyone had seen him so broken, if he was needed for anything- but Hosea’s hand gently carding through his hair while his other cradled him close made the thoughts slow and ooze away like molasses, and he kept his eyes closed as his muscles relaxed once more.

Hosea let loose a soft, pained sigh, and he worked his fingers even deeper and slower through Arthur’s hair. “...No,” he whispered after a long beat. “No parent who loses a child ever is.”

“...Oh,” came John’s voice, quietly. “Then… then what’s gonna happen?”

“Could be any number of things,” Hosea said gently. “Part of that depends on Arthur. The rest of it’ll depend on how much we help him through it.”

He heard the sound of John shuffle his boots. “...How can I help?”

“I don’t know,” Hosea drawled with a soft note of coyness that almost made Arthur smile, “how  _ can  _ you help?”

There was a long beat of silence before Arthur heard John shuffle closer and ease himself down onto the ground beside Arthur’s cot. “I can sleep with him,” John whispered.

Hosea gave a gentle snort. “And this after you were all excited about finally having your own tent?”

“I wanna help,” John countered, his voice small. 

Hosea sighed again, and if Arthur were to guess, he’d put money on a fond smile being on the man’s face. “My sweet boys,” he murmured. “...I wish death would quit following us.”

There was an intake of breath from John that indicated he may have tried to respond, but then there was the soft, gentle clink of spurs on booted feet trying to be quiet, followed by the sigh of Arthur’s tent flap opening. There was silence for a beat, then the clink of spurs shifting away-

“Dutch, get in here,” Hosea whispered.

A low, soft noise came from above - from Dutch. “I can come ba-”

“There’s room,” Hosea stated, his tone blunt and firm. An order.

He heard the sound of Dutch shuffle his boots. “How’s he doin’?” the man asked softly, delicately perching himself on the foot of Arthur’s cot, vacated thanks to Arthur’s curled-up legs.

Hosea’s hand idly tucked Arthur’s hair behind his ear. “About how you’d expect.”

The air shifted as Dutch’s hand approached Arthur’s ankle. After a moment’s hesitation, Dutch’s hand finally curled around it, ensconcing it in heavy, soothing pressure. Arthur relaxed even more. “I sent everyone out,” Dutch whispered. “Uncle and the Callander boys are off on an overnight job. Swanson and Pearson are headed to Springfield for supplies. I think Trelawny escorted  _ himself  _ out. I was fine with Susan and Tilly staying, but the woman said she had a job she’d been wanting to do with the girl for some weeks now and took off. It’s just us.”

John’s voice came from below, “Makes things a lot less hectic around here.”

Hosea hummed, a warm note. “Gives us a few days. ...Good job.”

Dutch’s thumb began slowly caressing Arthur’s leg in slow circles. “You doin’ your best impression of a bear skin rug down there, John?”

“Tryin’ to,” John drawled, and Arthur felt Hosea’s stomach convulse slightly in suppressed chuckles as Dutch snorted.

After a long stretch of silence, when Arthur was almost asleep again, he barely made out Dutch whisper, “How are you holdin’ up, Old Girl?”

Hosea didn’t respond. Just kept running his fingers through Arthur’s hair.

Dutch’s hand gently tightened around Arthur’s ankle. “You should get some food. And sleep.”

“I’m fine right here,” Hosea said softly, a slight tremor in his voice.

“Dearest…” Dutch whispered. Arthur felt the man carefully shift himself back onto his feet again, where he let go of Arthur to cross over to Hosea. A second later, he heard the sound of a kiss - Dutch must have pressed one to Hosea’s forehead. “Arthur will be fine. He’s got John here. Isn’t that right John?”

“I won’t leave him,” John swore.

“See? Our boy will be fine. We can check in with him later, but for now… will you join me in my tent? ...Please?”

Hosea’s hand slowly stilled in Arthur’s hair. “...You’ll stay with him, John?”

“He’s always been there for me. This is the least I can do.”

Hosea’s hold on Arthur tightened for a moment. “Well… all right.”

After a bit of awkward maneuvering that made Arthur snuffle and grunt - Dutch soothed a hand down his arm and whispered “It’s just us, Arthur, go back to sleep” - Hosea extracted himself from his spot half-curled around Arthur’s head and the sound of his boots joined Dutch’s as they headed towards the flap of Arthur’s tent. They both hesitated at the entrance for a long minute, then slipped outside.

Arthur felt John’s fingertips slot themselves into his hand where it was hanging off the edge of the cot, and with a small huff, he ignored the way his eyes suddenly stung as he let himself fall back into the freezing dark void in his chest.

The seventh marker wasn’t the sound of John’s voice, but rather the absence of it.

_ “What do you mean he’s gone?!” _ came Dutch’s roar in the early morning light. Arthur jerked himself awake and sat up in his cot, straining his ears.

Hosea’s voice carried across camp to say,  _ “He probably just left to take a breather before the baby-” _

_ “I know what I saw!” _ yelled Bill’s voice. Arthur was already hurriedly shrugging on his clothes and shoving his feet in his boots.  _ “He done packed up all of his stuff - and I mean  _ all  _ of it, every damn thing he had, and loaded it up on his horse and snuck out without so much as a word!” _

Arthur finally came running out of his tent and whirled his head around camp. He saw Dutch, Hosea, and Bill around the main fire, but they weren’t who he was looking for.

“I’ll send out the Callander boys to-”

“He wouldn’t just  _ leave Abigail-!” _

“I ain’t surprised, considerin’ that baby prolly ain’t even h-”

_ “Bill  _ you are  _ dismissed!” _

Arthur finally spotted her, her belly heavy and round with over eight months of child. Abigail was standing off to the side of camp, pale and wide-eyed as she cradled her stomach, her eyes glistening. Arthur hurried towards her and she immediately threw herself into his embrace, and he pressed a kiss to the top of her head as he held her close.

Dutch sent out search party after search party and Hosea stayed up on watch for weeks. There was never any sign of John.

He was well and truly gone.

The next thing Arthur knew, he was cradling a newborn, infant Jack, all pink and wrinkly, walking around with him bundled up tight against the warmth of his chest so that he’d keep sleeping while Abigail wailed and wept and shook apart in Hosea’s arms where the man was holding her in her tent, and had held her, through the entire birth, filling in for the sharp absence of the man who was supposed to be her partner through something so big and so scary. Miss Grimshaw, Tilly, and Karen threw her tent endless pitying looks when they all finally emerged from helping her birth the babe, and Arthur finally stopped jiggling his leg and running his hands over and through each other when Miss Grimshaw clasped his shoulder and asked, “Would you be willing to be with the baby for an hour or so, Arthur? I think Miss Roberts needs… a moment.”

Arthur listened to Abigail cry, sounding like a dying animal, and looked down at the beautiful face of baby Jack, his tiny soft hands resting against his pudgy cheeks... 

...and decided that John Marston was, well and truly, the most wretched, sickening, cowardly, selfish,  _ vile  _ creature to ever walk the Earth.

A year later, Old Boy walked warily into their camp, and John stiffly and awkwardly dismounted while the entire gang dropped what they were doing and slowly gathered around like a pack of suspicious wolves. No one moved or spoke or did anything for a long moment, until Dutch finally schooled his face into a cool smile and walked forwards, his arms outstretched, and crowed “And so he returns to the fold once more! My boy, my precious boy!” before seizing John by the shoulders and pulling him into an embrace. Arthur saw Karen and Mac slowly remove their hands from their holsters, and warily, the gang dispersed with only a few side-eyes and mumbles.

Everyone except Arthur and Hosea. Abigail had retreated with Jack long ago.

When Dutch finally got done talking to John, clapping him on the shoulder and cradling his face repeatedly, the man gestured John towards them with a sharp-toothed smile and strode away. John looked over at them both and shuffled his feet slightly before meekly walking towards them with his head bowed. He stopped when he got close and opened his mouth, raising his head finally, but quailed when he saw Hosea’s icy-cold, thunderous, bitterly disappointed glare. Without a word, with his jaw clenched, Hosea turned his back on John and walked off towards Abigail and Jack. After a long moment, John turned to Arthur and rubbed at his arm. “Arth-”

_ “Marston,” _ Arthur snipped back, then spat at his feet and stormed away.

John was too much of a coward to have anyone’s back. 

And Arthur sure as hell wouldn’t have his.

-~-~-

“Hey Hosea?” Arthur asked faintly.

Hosea looked over at him from where he was washing the dishes of their Yom Kippur meal, finally released from his ban on work with the setting of the sun. They broke their fast - well, “fast,” since Arthur still had to eat and drink and Hosea sipped water and nibbled on crackers throughout the day to keep from fainting - with a modest yet colorful meal of quiche, blintzes, and cinnamon raisin cookies that Hosea made the day before and that Arthur even helped with a little. It left them both in a good mood, and despite them spending most of the day in their own rooms in deep, private thought or fumbling their way through prayers together in broken Hebrew, Arthur reckoned both of their shoulders felt a little lighter.

“Yes, Arthur? What’s on your mind?”

Arthur shifted in his chair and traced the whorls in their table. “Do you ever… think about John?”

Hosea snorted and scrubbed a plate. “I think about a lot of things. John is one of the more frequent ones, I must admit.”

Arthur circled his fingers around a dark knot in the wood. “Do you reckon… do you reckon that in Canada, that… me and him… Do you think we can rebuild what we lost? After all those years of…” he sighed. “Of us both being dumbasses?”

Hosea glanced at him and smiled, a little sad. “Of course I do. As long as you both are willing to put in the work. It won’t be the same, but… well I reckon you two can build something even better than before. It even looked to me like you already started.”

“And what about… the three of us? Do you think we can…” Arthur sighed. “Do you think we can all get a happy ending in Canada? After… after everything?”

“I know we can,” Hosea said gently.

Arthur slowly leaned back in his chair and hesitantly, warily, smiled. “...I’m still gettin’ used to you soundin’ all assured and hopeful.”

Hosea finished drying the last dish and looked over at him with a look that was soft and warm. He lazily made his way over and knocked his hip against Arthur’s shoulder, laying a heavy hand on the top of his head. “And I’m likin’ all this talk of a future with you in it.”

Arthur’s smile turned bittersweet as he elbowed Hosea’s thigh. “Just gotta beat TB first, huh?”

“One last fight,” Hosea agreed, sliding his hand down to squeeze Arthur’s shoulder. “And speaking of, we should-”

“-’get you back to bed,’ I know, I know,” Arthur sighed. Hosea rolled his eyes and harassed him up to his feet, and together, they slowly ascended the stairs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **1) Dutch van der Linde's Last Stand**  
>  **2) Escape from Saint Denis**  
>  **3) Escape from Lemoyne**  
>  **4) The Letter**  
>  **5) Reunions**  
>  **6) Unfinished Business**  
>  **7) I Know You**  
>  **8) Dreams, Omens, and Other Harbingers**  
>  **9) For Whom the Bell Tolls**  
>  **10) My First Boy**  
>  **11) National Jewish Health**  
>  **12) Sins of the Past**  
>  **13) Atonement**  
>  14) Arcadia for Amateurs VI


	14. Arcadia for Amateurs VI

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warning** for vague allusions to and then a flashback of **rape** \- the flashback only occurs at the very end of the chapter, so when Arthur goes to sleep, please take care ♥
> 
> My _god_ these past few weeks have been draining. It feels like I've encountered crisis after crisis that has absolutely destroyed my energy and made me feel like brittle glass, but while the chapter has been very slow going, it's brought me some comfort through all the chaos. This is a much lighter and fluffier chapter than most, and I can only hope that y'all have as good of a time reading as I did writing this.
> 
> I also know I say this a lot, but reading y'all's comments _really do_ make my entire day. I promise they're not 'intrusive' or 'weird' no matter how long or short or fluent they are or how much you share - I love hearing y'all's thoughts and experiences! (Of course, comments are also never expected - at the end of the day, I really just hope this story of mine can make someone smile or provide some catharsis, and that is enough ♥)

**_October, 1899_ **

Arthur looked up from where he was sketching in his journal at the knock on his bedroom door and huffed. “You know you ain’t gotta knock, right? Ain’t like I got any privacy anyways.”

Hosea quirked an eyebrow. “Well maybe that’s why I _knock.”_ Arthur rolled his eyes and gestured him in, and Hosea smirked as he sauntered up to the bed, flamboyantly producing a letter from behind his back. “Look what I picked up at the post office today. Finally managed to get ‘Tacitus Kilgore’s mail rerouted from New Hanover.”

Arthur squinted at the envelope and absently closed his journal, setting it aside. “Who the hell’d be writin’ me?”

He tensed at the mischievous twinkle in Hosea’s eye. “A certain Miss _Mary.”_

Arthur snatched the letter and inspected the envelope closely, taking in Mary’s careful, loopy handwriting spelling out his pseudonym and the post-office box address. He barely caught Hosea lean against the foot of the bed as he ripped the envelope open and reached in, then-

He paused when he felt cold, smooth metal and the unique paper of a photograph. After a long moment, he slowly and hesitantly slid out the portrait they took together when they were young and so very in love, along with the ring he used to propose to her. Images flashed through his mind of her tear-filled eyes that shone with so much light and then so much suffocating _sorrow_ when he asked her to run away with him. He set the photograph and the ring down on the bed with a shaky hand, then slowly pulled out the letter and unfolded it, dread sinking deeper and deeper into his stomach with each crinkle of the paper.

_My dear Arthur,_

_You never showed up, and now, after looking at the newspapers I understand why. I don't imagine you will receive this letter but I nonetheless must send it. Arthur, oh, Arthur. I was just starting to dream the silliest and softest of dreams. I miss you, and I will always miss you but I cannot live like that, and it seems you cannot live any other way._

_When I'm with you, the world makes sense; but when we are apart, I see clearly that your world is not a world from which one can escape. I'm so sorry, for everything, for everything long ago and for starting that business up again. There's a good man within you, Arthur, but he is wrestling with a giant. And the giant... wins, time and again. You've broken my heart, again, and I fear I have broken yours._

_For that, I will never forgive myself but you must let me go now. I enclose a ring you gave me many years ago, when we were both young, not because I don't like it, but because I care for it far too much and it reminds me too much of you. I hope, one day... you will find some people in love who can use this, for it kept me thinking of you all these years, and I hope by returning it to you I can finally be free._

_Goodbye_

_Mary_

Arthur stared down at the letter, and breathed.

The pain in his lungs reflected the pain unspooling from his heart to tangle and snag through his veins and coil around his stomach and throat like rusted barbed wire. His eyes stung. Guilt settled low and thick in his gut, bubbling up and out to slither across his skin.

_I was just starting to dream the silliest and softest of dreams._

Images sailed through his head like tiny, fragile paper boats floating down a stream, quivering in the wind. Him and Mary, running away - from the gang, from her father - him building her a house and holding her from behind while she cooks breakfast in the morning, running his fingers through her hair, melting into her arms and warmth at night, them having children together and being able to watch them grow, them growing old together, their days full of light and laughter and love…

He’d promised her. He’d _promised_ her - that as soon as he took care of the others, as soon as he saw them safe, as soon as he got some money, that they’d run away together and forge their own path, carve out a pocket of love and peace in the world for themselves to embrace each other in in the wake of their lives full of pain and regret and far too much self-sacrifice for their families.

The two of them always were willing to carve off pieces of themselves and scoop out their hearts for the sake of their families. So much so that they had nothing left for each other besides longing and dreams in the hollows of their chests, hanging like the last trembling leaves from barren boughs swallowed up by winter.

A tear fell on the paper, and he sniffled, his lungs rasping.

“Not… a particularly good letter, I take it…?” Hosea’s voice prompted quietly.

Arthur cringed at the sound and folded up the letter, turning his head to cough gently into his shoulder. He inhaled a strained breath, then sighed and curled into himself slightly. “Mary… she…” He wiped at the corners of his eyes. “She don’t want me in her life no more.”

Hosea was quiet for a long moment, then made a soft, gentle sound before folding his hand over Arthur’s knee. “I’m sorry, son.”

Arthur slapped the letter gently on his hand and looked up at Hosea with a quivering huff. “She… She said she don’t want me no more because I can’t escape the life. That I can’t change. That it’s the only life I can live.” He slapped the letter on his hand again and turned his teary gaze out the window. “If only she could see me now, huh?”

Hosea was silent.

Arthur continued, “Maybe it’s for the best. Now she won’t have to know I’m dyin’-”

“Sick.”

“-and she _deserves_ to be free, to-... Aw, _Hell.”_ He buried his face in his hands. “I’m such a _fool.”_

He heard Hosea stand up and slowly walk up to the head of the bed, then felt it as the man hauled himself onto the mattress to sit beside him, hip-to-hip. Hosea’s arm curled around his shoulders and gently pulled him closer, and Arthur obligingly slumped against him, letting his head fall limply onto his chest. “You deserve to be free, too, son,” Hosea said, his voice low and gentle as he rubbed Arthur’s shoulder. “I know you love her. And I’m sure she loves you. And I know that you both made each other very, very happy… and also so very, very sad. Sometimes, love… it can be real, and it can be true, and the most healing thing in the world… but if left to fester, it just becomes _poison,_ Arthur. And you don’t deserve to hold that in your heart. You deserve to be able to move on from her, too.”

The sound of Hosea’s heartbeat thudding gently against his ear reminded him of all the reasons why he failed Mary and broke her heart through the years - just as she did him for the sound of Jamie’s. And her father’s, verbally abusive and self-destructive fool that he was.

They fell in love because they were so alike. Maybe that was their ruin, in the end. Neither of them could ever put themselves first.

“Move on to what?” Arthur croaked weakly. “She’s the only person in the world who’d have me.”

“Not true.”

“How do _you_ know?”

Hosea chastisingly flicked Arthur’s hair. “Did you not believe Charles when he told you he loved you?”

Arthur turned his face to bury it further into Hosea’s chest. “I’d sworn myself to Mary when he told me,” he confessed, quietly. “And it was a hard few days, and we’d just found out I’m dyin’-”

 _“Sick,_ not dying,” Hosea corrected curtly.

 _“-sick-”_ Arthur flicked a glare up at him before slumping again “-and it was after we’d agreed to split up. Men’d say a whole lotta things in times like that that they might not mean. He mighta thought he’d never see me again. Hell, he still might not.”

Hosea clicked his tongue and gently swatted him on the shoulder. “I have it on good authority that he loved you well before that night.”

“What, your _intuition?”_ Arthur drawled.

Hosea sighed and rolled his eyes. “I asked him what his intentions towards you were a few nights before that.”

Arthur tensed and immediately squirmed out of Hosea’s grip to sit up and look at him, scandalized. _“‘Sea.”_

Hosea raised an eyebrow at him then wheezed out a laugh mixed with a cackle, turning away to catch a brief, dry cough in his elbow. Recovering, he straightened up and shook his head, still wheezing out chuckles. “Well I didn’t hold a _shotgun_ to him, if that’s what you’re implying.”

Arthur could feel his face flushing all the way to his ears. "It wasn't your business," he growled. 

"Before you get even more riled up," Hosea said, deadpan, holding up a defusing hand, "it wasn’t like I sought him out. He came to _me._ I was having a bad night and he brought me a blanket. We got to talking, I saw an opening, I took it.”

Arthur blinked. Then blinked again. A tangled mess of emotions rolled through his chest like a tumbleweed, all garbled and knotted and conflicting. He felt frustration and a fair bit of anger at Hosea for not leaving well enough alone. He felt a bubbling wave of something soft and indescribable towards Charles for doing something selfless for the man he loved like a father, for being so selfless in general. He also felt a bittersweet pang of thankfulness that Hosea cared enough to want to shield him from further heartbreak, that he had someone who could possibly be… _protective_ over him. 

He used to have a whole slew of folk who were protective over him. Hosea, of course, and Dutch. Miss Grimshaw, and Bessie, and Annabelle. John, even. He wondered with a sharp note of sadness when and why he stopped feeling smothered and fussed over, and started feeling like a lonely workhorse. Bessie and Annabelle, of course, died. Miss Grimshaw at some point stopped fussing over him and started snapping at him to sleep less, eat less, and work more. Dutch followed suit, albeit with more words wrapped up in more dressing, as if that cushioned the blow at all. He and John fell through. Even Hosea’s attention waned from him in the wake of Blackwater - his fretting and worrying became stretched woefully thin to cover the entire gang, and Arthur got the distinct impression that it brought Hosea comfort to feel like Arthur could handle himself, that he was the one person he didn’t have to wring his hands over. And Arthur, knowing the weight bowing Hosea’s spine - before Dutch’s death and after - was determined to not add to it.

Still. There’d been some days when he thought Hosea’s harsh snips to rest more and eat more and Charles’s gentle urgings to sit next to him in quiet peace for a while were the only things that kept him going.

Arthur looked down at the letter in his hands, and after reverently caressing his thumbs over it, he tucked it back into the torn envelope, slipped in the photo and the ring, and shoved it deep into the depths of his overstuffed satchel where it sat on his night-stand. He then rested his hands in his lap for a long moment, fiddling with the sleeve of his soft sleep shirt. The heat of embarrassment still kept his face hot. 

“...What did you say to him?” he asked, the words slow and hesitant.

Hosea let out a long sigh and shifted his weight. His voice was gentle when he said, “I just asked him if he loved you. Plain and simple.”

Arthur slowly slid his eyes over to look at Hosea’s face. “And… what did he-... What did he say…?”

Hosea’s brow softly curved upwards and he swiped a finger under Arthur’s chin, making him lift it a little. “He said he loves you. And he also said that he values your trust and your friendship. He’d been hoping for you to make the first move.”

A harsh huff of breath escaped Arthur’s nose as he looked away again, tugging harder yet slower on his sleeve. “Then he’s a fool.”

Hosea scoffed. “Oh, there you go again.”

Arthur turned back to Hosea and puffed himself up. “You really gonna sit there and tell me all this ‘festering love is poison’ talk and tell me that it’s any good for Charles to love me? I know you like to pretend that I’ll recover, Hosea, and I’ve indulged you in it - perhaps a bit too much - but the chances are still _slim._ ‘Sides, even if I do live through this, that don’t change the fact that _Charles Smith_ deserves better than a man still hung up on a doomed love, who failed to prote-...” He was suddenly out of breath, and pain bloomed in his chest more from his heart than from his lungs. Arthur knit his brow and curled in on himself again, letting his gaze fall to his lap as his eyes stung.

“Forget about Charles and all that nonsense you just spewed for a minute,” Hosea snapped. “What do _you_ want?”

“It don’t matter what I want.”

“The _shit_ it _don’t!”_ Hosea grabbed him by the chin and turned his head to look at him. Arthur felt like a stag with its antlers trapped in a tree, pinned down by the gray-amber of Hosea’s glare. _“What_ do you _want,_ son?”

Arthur blinked rapidly. He fisted his hand into his sleeve. “To help John and his family in Canada.”

“And for _yourself?”_ Hosea pressed, his glare softening slightly as something sad leaked in.

Arthur’s breathing lost its careful, raspy rhythm. “That _is_ for myself.”

“No it ain’t,” Hosea corrected forcefully. “What do you want for _your sake,_ Arthur? Not anyone else’s.”

Arthur sat there for a long while, watching more and more sadness seep into Hosea’s expression with each passing second.

Eventually, when Hosea’s expression had completely fallen and his hand had gone from holding his chin to cupping his jaw, Arthur finally rasped, “...I just wanna be loved.”

“Then _let yourself be loved,”_ Hosea drawled slowly, raising his other hand so he could frame Arthur’s face, “you _silly boy.”_ Hosea gave his head a gentle shake as a twinkle returned to his eyes, and Arthur batted him away and squirmed out of his grip, a wan smile on his face despite him not telling it to be there.

“Thanks, Hosea,” Arthur said softly. After a beat, his smile faded away and his shoulders sank. “I sure am gonna miss Mary, though.”

Hosea gently punched him in the shoulder and brightened. “Why don’t you come fishing with me? Few things better for mending a broken heart than fishing, and you haven’t done your ‘gentle exercise’ for the day yet. Getting out of this bed and into nature will do you some good!”

Arthur perked up immediately. “Screw the fishing, old man, let me see my _horse!”_

Hosea’s laugh warmed the crisp October air that breezed through their house as he slapped Arthur’s knee and stood up. “Well then, I’ll go throw on some layers while you get dressed properly and I’ll meet you downstairs!”

Twenty minutes later, Arthur was fully dressed and layered up for Denver’s autumn air - never straying too far from the pleasant sixties, despite how often the morning sun would rise to reveal snow on the ground. Arthur only really needed his union suit under his pants and shirt and his jacket to fend off his weakness to chills given to him by his sickness. The slush had long since fully melted away as Arthur walked out onto the back porch behind Hosea, lingering only as puddles on the ground. The sun was sinking low in the sky, setting earlier in the day than it had in the summer, and when the wind blew it held no harsh bite or cutting edge - instead, it carried a warmth and softness that ruffled through their hair and sped along the drying of the ground.

Hosea stepped up to The Count where the horse was hitched at the back of the house, and Arthur just caught the two of them start to engage in a heated bout of bickering and nickering over the carrots in Hosea’s satchel when Killer let out a loud, shrill cry from the horse shed. Arthur’s eyes slipped to his boy immediately, and he was met with the welcome sight of Killer happily tossing his head, snorting and rattling the stall door with heavy knocks of his hoof.

“Settle down, settle down!” Arthur guffawed as he approached, reaching up to vigorously rub his stallion’s cheeks. Killer let out a hoarse whine and nuzzled his face, and Arthur could only chuckle and kiss his nose as he scratched behind his ears. “Aw, I’m sorry, boy. I know you haven’t seen me much, but ol’ Zieglar only cleared me to ride ya a few days ago! Was ol’ Hosea exercisin’ ya every day not enough for you?”

Killer shook his head and his coat and snorted, bumping his nose into Arthur’s face again and making him screw an eye shut before the thoroughbred shoved his whiskers into it, causing a warm laugh to gently wheeze out of his lungs. "N'aw, my sweet, loyal boy. I spoil you rotten, don't I?" he cooed, pulling out an oatcake and shoving it into Killer's mouth, who happily munched away at it with bits of sugary oat drool leaking out of his mouth, his eyes half-lidded. Arthur placed his hands on Killer's cheeks to feel the pleasant vibrations and pressed one last kiss to the bottom of his sickle-shaped blaze before moving away to grab his tack from the side of the shed.

Once Killer was all tacked up, Arthur took a minute to catch his breath and recover before hiking his foot into the stirrup and swinging up onto Killer’s back. He patted Killer’s neck and smiled when the horse looked over his shoulder at him with a bright, eager-to-please eye, and with a gentle few clicks of his tongue and shift of his hips, he sent Killer walking towards where Hosea sat waiting for him atop The Count, his brow knit in worry.

“You know, I can saddle him for you in the future if the weight’s too much,” Hosea said gently before clicking at The Count to start walking towards the road.

Arthur rolled his eyes. “You do enough for me already.”

“Oh don’t you start _this_ again.”

“Y’know, you keep saying that.”

“Because you keep starting up nonsense!”

“It ain’t nonsense for me to want some goddamn independence!”

“Now see? Was that so hard to say? Because what you _really_ said was that I do ‘enough for you already.’”

“You _do.”_

He caught Hosea rolling his eyes as they guided their horses onto the road, riding single-file in their best attempt to let other riders and wagons pass without being screamed at or cussed out for riding at a walk. Arthur allowed himself a moment of frustration at Zieglar for the exact way he said _gentle riding._

“You don’t need to ‘shield me’ from anything, son, and certainly not from labor,” Hosea snarked once they rode past the last few shabby buildings of their neighborhood on the road out of the city. “I may be old, but I ain’t decrepit _yet.”_

Arthur urged Killer up to walk beside The Count now that they were out on a wider and less busy road so that he could fix Hosea with a glare. “I think your body and those ol’ pipes of yours may think differently. And if you ain’t decrepit yet, you sure as hell’s _gonna be_ the way you work yourself.”

“Oh, _please-”_ Hosea started with a scoff.

“You are working the job of a stage actor, a housewife, and a nurse every damn day, Hosea. That’s three folks’ worth of labor, and you’re turnin’ _fifty-six_ here soon, which is older than any man _I’ve_ ever known to live, and don’t think I miss the way you keep crashing and passing out-”

“It’s a delightful little innovation I like to call _napping,_ dear boy.”

“Oh? Napping, is it? That what you call collapsing on your bed with your legs still on the floor or laying on the floor of the kitchen lookin’ like you’re dead?”

“That time was to help my back and you know it.”

"And the tremor that's showed up in your hands? What excuse you gonna come up with for that one?"

"Your hands shake too!"

“You’re dancing around my point, here, Hosea,” Arthur pressed, right before a tickle grew in his lungs and he was forced to turn his head and cough. He felt phlegm fly up into his mouth once again, and after glancing around at the open fields of grass on either side of them, he risked spitting it out into a ditch. 

When he looked back, Hosea was dragging a hand down over his face with his shoulders hunched forward. “None of this negates the fact that there’s _nothing else for it_ , son. You need _rest._ You need your _strength.”_ He sat up again and rolled his shoulders back, and although his eyes glinted with challenge, the lines in his expression softened as he looked at Arthur. “Now this air’s been doing as much good for _my_ lungs as it has yours, and ever since we started observing Shabbat every week things have been a lot easier on me. I am quite literally _banned_ from doing any labor for a full twenty-four hours, and that’s all I need to keep afloat. You need to quit your worryin’.”

Arthur gestured at the world around them, open and airy, the brown grass bowing in waves to the wind like a pastel tan ocean. “I’m recovering. I can do ‘gentle exercise’ now. Let me take over a chore or two.”

Hosea poked him so hard in the shoulder it hurt even through Arthur’s jacket. “Are you recovering or are you dying, son? Make up your mind!”

Arthur clicked his tongue. “You and I both know TB is just a bunch of recoveries and relapses. Any one of which can end in _death.”_

“And _that,_ dear boy,” Hosea countered, enunciating each word so clearly that he bared his teeth a little, “is why you need to do everything in your power to _keep_ recovering. You need to _trust me_ when I say that I can handle everything, and that if I offer you help, it means I can do it.”

 _“Can_ I trust you?” Arthur countered, his voice quiet. The look on Hosea’s face suggested it still carried enough bite.

For a man who never worked an honest job before arriving in Denver, Hosea was always a man who prided himself in his work. Whether it was the picking of pockets, a flamboyant performance to distract marks, going on weeks-long undercover reconnaissance excursions to get information or unload sensitive bonds and gold bars, running through bullets and firing his own in the defense of the gang, steeping his arms elbow-deep in blood to treat someone’s wounds or skinning his hands making tonics when one of them got sick, all the way down to bringing them food or water or getting a read on how well each of them were holding up, Hosea always seemed to vibrate with the need to do… _something._ The pain that plagued his body and never ebbed and the mysterious weight that sat on his lungs as the years wore on him forced him to do less and less, but the man could never seem to be idle for long. Not since Bessie. When he _was_ idle, forced into hanging back at camp by his failing body, he got quiet. And when Hosea got quiet, Dutch got antsy. And when Dutch got antsy, the gang got busy. And when the gang got busy, Hosea stopped being idle. 

Arthur, John, and Miss Grimshaw found out what was lurking in that quiet back on the homestead, when everything overflowed to consume Hosea no matter how busy he got or how hard he worked. 

Arthur also made a promise to him on that homestead. And it was a promise he intended to keep.

"...I will _think about…_ some chores that you can do," Hosea hedged, looking away and forward between The Count's ears with the pinched expression he always wore when he lost an argument.

Arthur harrumphed in victory.

 _"But,"_ Hosea hissed, "if you _relapse,_ I'm taking everything over again. So you best think about that."

They met each other's gaze for a long moment. Slowly, ever so slowly, their glares were replaced with smirks, small and bittersweet things. Arthur rolled his eyes and shook his head before Hosea shoved him so hard he almost fell out of his saddle. They continued walking their horses at a languid pace, chuckling softly at themselves and at each other, letting the tension between them evaporate like the puddles in the ditches beside the trail.

The blue of the sky was growing ever softer in hue, easing the great cloudless expanse above them into a gentle gradient of cool pastels to juxtapose against the warm yellows and oranges and reds of the grass and leaves on the trees. The mountains sat as a soft, happy medium separating the two realms on the horizon, colored in warm purples and grays with cool white tips. Birds chirped and sang in the branches of the colorful trees they passed by, warning each other about an eagle that flew overhead. Rabbits darted across and chased each other along the trail, and when Hosea turned them off and guided them through a field of tall wild grass, a flock of quail flew up and darted away in a shifting dance on the wind.

The creek they found was at the bottom of a gentle, rocky slope, with a scraggly line of trees on the other side. They left the horses at the top of the slope and took out their fishing poles before carefully making their way down to the bank, knocking a few rocks loose with their boots to slide down into the water. A gush of fresh wind blew, rustling the trees to make their whisper join the whisper of the water, ruffling their hair and swirling through their lungs in a way that made them breathe a little deeper and quiet the whistles in their chests. Hosea set up further along the creek a ways, Arthur found an old log to sit on, and after baiting their hooks, the men set to fishing.

After an hour passed, with the sun halfway to sinking below the horizon, painting the sky above them in pastel oranges and lilacs, Arthur reeled in a fish just as Hosea threw one back, and Hosea hollered "That’s a big one! Why don’t you keep it for supper tonight? How does fried fish and mashed potatoes sound?"

"Like damn good eatin'!" Arthur chuckled, tucking the fish into his game satchel and collapsing his fishing pole. Hosea did the same with his, and after smiling at each other in the fading light, they started making their way back up the slope to their dozing steeds.

That was when Arthur spotted a very curious sight down the water a ways.

"Is that…?" he murmured, his brow slowly rising towards his hairline as his smile brightened into something giddy and incredulous. He greeted Killer with a couple warm pats to the neck and fed his boy a carrot, then swung up into the saddle and looked at Hosea, who'd just finished settling atop The Count. "Hey Hosea, I think I spot an old friend down there! Let's go say hello!"

Hosea tilted his head quizzically. "An old friend? Wh-" 

Arthur was already urging Killer into a bouncy trot towards the figure in the distance.

Once Arthur was close enough, he pulled Killer to a halt and crowed "What're _you_ doin' here?!"

Albert Mason jumped a foot in the air with a shrill squawk and whirled around, clutching his chest and staggering back a couple steps from his camera. "Oh, good heavens!" He shook his head slightly and then squinted against the sunlight to look at Arthur's face. "I… is that…? _Mr. Morgan?!_ Is that _you?"_

"The very same!" Arthur guffawed, easing himself down off of Killer to walk towards the man, only to be met halfway by Albert rushing forward and clasping both of his hands in his, squeezing them tightly. The light, buzzing feeling in Arthur's chest grew brighter and widened his smile. "I thought you'd be back East!"

Albert scoffed and gestured his head towards the rolling expanse of nature surrounding them. "After I finished my project, I did go home to Boston, but I could only stay there a few weeks. My many misadventures which you, uh- saved me from rattled me quite deeply, but _oh,_ once I got back… All that stone, all that brick… all the... _people…”_ Albert sighed and dropped his gaze, letting go of Arthur’s hands so that he could turn and look out at the golden plains stretching towards the mountains, standing as gentle rolling shadows before the blended colors of celestial fire that bled through the sky. He huffed out a breath. “Well. All those near death experiences made me realize I felt more alive dancing with danger in the wilderness than I did in my tenement laying in soft sheets eating cookies.” 

Arthur watched the ripples in the water from fish poking the surface with their heads or their fins as they swallowed up the evening insects, then shifted his eyes to a turtle lazily making its way towards the treeline on the opposite bank. The faint sound of honking made him and Albert both look up to spy a flock of geese in the distance flying south for the incoming winter. “I never was a fan of cities myself,” he said quietly. “And I’ve always got along more with animals than people.”

As if on cue, Killer stepped closer and nickered softly, nosing at Albert’s hat. Albert turned his gaze to the horse and giggled, reaching up to delicately pet his nose. “And I remember _you,_ fine Sir! A pleasure seeing you again, too!” Killer made a low, happy noise and turned his attention to nosing at Arthur’s chest to beg for ear scratches, which Arthur happily gave. Albert watched the two of them with a warm smile. “Might I ask what _you_ are doing here, Sir? It’s an awful long ways from where we met!”

“Ehh, well…” Arthur sighed, easing one hand down from Killer’s ear to gently rub up and down his face, easing over the horse’s eyes to help him relax, “I fell in a bad way.” He let the silence hang for a long moment and watched out of the corner of his eye as Albert’s brow furrowed and his smile twisted into a worried frown. “I got TB.”

“Oh, good heavens,” Albert said softly, lifting his hands to press over his heart. “I- I’m so sorry. That’s so terrible.”

Arthur shrugged and held Killer’s face close before patting him twice on the cheek so he could wander off. “It is what it is.”

“I can see why you’re here, now,” Albert intoned, taking a deep breath as the wind blew along the creek and whistled past their ears, wrapping them in a gentle, warm embrace. Arthur smiled a little and nodded as his lungs filled, almost effortless. “The air here is _exquisite_ for the lungs. Just lovely, really. Are you doing quite all right? How bad is it?” he fretted, speaking rapidly in a way that was slightly strained as he took one of Arthur’s hands in his and clasped it.

Arthur laughed gently and used his free hand to pat Albert’s. “I’m doin’ okay. I’ve improved a little bit since I got here. It’s very slow goin’, but… well, I take it day by day.”

“Oh thank goodness,” Albert sighed, squeezing Arthur’s hand tighter as tension released from his shoulders and back like a spring. “You have saved my life countless times, my good man. It would be a true crime if yours is taken. If there is anything I can do for you at all, Sir, anything at all-” Albert suddenly got distracted by a sight over Arthur’s shoulder, and when Arthur turned his head, he saw Hosea riding up to them on The Count at a slow, lazy walk, his eyes twinkling with mirth as he smiled at them, bright and intrigued. 

“Ah, I should introduce ya’s,” Arthur said gruffly, patting Albert on the shoulder as the man sprang away from him and let go of his hand as if he’d been caught doing something he wasn’t supposed to, clasping his hands behind his back instead and looking at Hosea with a tight, nervous smile. Hosea’s shoulders twitched with silent chuckles at the sight. “Mr. Mason, this is my long-time mentor, Hosea Matthews.” Hosea quirked an eyebrow and glanced at him for the usage of his real name, but Arthur just smiled at him with a small nod, squeezing his hand gently around Albert’s shoulder, and Hosea nodded back, relaxing with a wink. “He’s as good as a father to me, and we got ourselves a little house in Denver where we’re making a go of it. Hosea, this is Mr. Albert Mason, a wildlife photographer, and a _damn_ good one at that.”

Albert blushed and huffed out a laugh, scuffing his boot. “Oh, please, Sir, you are much too kind and speak much too highly of my- my novice skills.” He skittered anxiously forwards out of Arthur’s grasp and held out his hand towards Hosea, who took it in his with a loud _clap,_ shaking it firmly. “It is a pleasure to meet you, Mr. Matthews, it truly is! I owe Mr. Morgan my life many times over, and I’m honored to meet someone who could be considered his family.”

Hosea beamed down at Albert and squeezed his hand tightly before releasing it, letting Albert back away to try and subtly shake it out. “And family he is! Which is how I know Arthur isn’t in the habit of making friends too often. I’m glad to see someone who’s proved an exception.” He looked pointedly at Arthur, and it was Arthur’s turn to blush. Turning back to Albert, Hosea sat up straight in the saddle and said, “Tell you what, young man. We just caught ourselves a fish for our supper, and I _was_ gonna fry it for the two of us, but I reckon I could turn it into a stew for three. Please, join us for supper! You can tell me more about how you know my boy.”

“Hosea-” Arthur started shyly.

“Oh I’d love to!” Albert blurted. “But first I’m afraid I must insist on getting the photograph I came here for. It’s my next photography project, see - ‘Love and Family in the Wild.’” He slowly held his hands out in front of his face as if envisioning the words laid out before turning to look at Arthur. “There are so many creatures who mate for life, as well as show their offspring unimaginable care and tenderness, and it’s my hope that, after capturing the beauty of America’s predators, I can show the more nurturing, tender side of the wild, to further sway the hearts and minds walled off in cities to support conservation!” He walked back up to his camera and peered through the lens. “Now, there is a pair of mated swans in the brush across the creek, but I cannot get a clear shot of them through the bushes and the grass, and I can’t risk taking my equipment across the water to get closer. Swans mate for life, did you know? Exceptionally rare among birds! Once they find a partner, they are faithful to the end.”

Arthur peered into the bushes on the opposite side of the creek and saw the large, hulking white forms of the waterfowl nestled together in the privacy of the brush. After peering a bit closer, he also saw the orange beaks that made him smirk and shake his head. “Ahh, those are _mute_ swans. Them’s _mean_ sons of bitches. You should be glad you didn’t cross over to ‘em - they’ll flay your skin clean off.”

Hosea laughed behind them both. “Arthur should know! I had to treat quite a nasty wound he got when he was younger because he thought it would be a good idea to try and-”

Arthur lolled his head back towards the sky and begged _“Hosea please.”_

Albert glanced between them both and the swans with an air of meek, self-aware anxiety. “Oh, well, uh- I’m afraid this will be very familiar, then, but do you believe you could perhaps? Encourage them to come out of cover? Just a little? I’m so very desperate to get this picture before the light fades-”

“Sure,” Arthur said immediately, starting towards the creek with a knowing grin.

 _“Absolutely_ not,” Hosea said immediately, swinging down off of The Count to march up to Arthur and put a restraining arm in front of his chest. “You do _not_ need to be runnin’ from swans and _certainly_ not recovering from a bad scrape with one.” 

Arthur huffed and put his hands on his hips, gesturing his head towards Albert. _“Come on,_ ‘Sea,” he drawled, a slow, ornery grin growing on his face, “the man wants a picture of some swans. If you don’t want me to do it, then why don’t _you_ go over there and flush ‘em out?”

Albert watched them silently with a look of slowly dawning intrigue.

“Not a chance,” Hosea deadpanned, patting Arthur on the shoulder and ending with a little shove. Arthur chuckled as Hosea turned around to face Albert, placing his hands on his hips. He and Arthur looked like a matching set. “Now, my good man, won’t you please cut your losses and come with us?”

Albert slowly walked out in front of his camera and analyzed the ground, stepping delicately around the rocks near the creek bank before stopping and turning back towards his camera, looking to the side at where Hosea was still hovering next to Arthur. “Mr. Matthews, would you mind standing here a moment?”

By the way Hosea tensed even more and slowly crossed his arms in front of his chest, Arthur figured Hosea was immediately onto Albert’s game. _“Why,_ might I ask?”

Albert anxiously patted his thighs and chuckled, gesturing grandly at Hosea. “I cannot permit myself to have come out here all this way and stood on this bank for five hours and come away with nothing. Please, allow me to take your portrait!”

“Not a chance,” Hosea repeated, and the slight scowl he wore was making Arthur chuckle from the way it echoed his face from so long ago.

Albert’s expression fell slightly, and he sighed as he made his way back to his camera. “Then I’m afraid I can’t join you wonderful men for dinner. Please, please, don’t mind me - I’m sure we’ll meet again!”

Hosea clicked his tongue and uncrossed his arms. “Are you- You _do_ know who we are, don’t you, Mr. Mason?” 

“Oh, yes! I’ve read the papers,” Albert said casually as he double-checked his slides, as if Hosea had asked him about the latest baseball game.

“...You know the _price_ on our heads?”

Albert straightened up and placed his hand on his heart, turning to squarely face them both, and the restless anxiety twitching through his frame quieted down to nothing as he swore, “Your privacy is of the utmost importance to me. I solemnly promise that I will tell no one of who you are or where you are, and that I will only display the photo if and when you and Mr. Morgan deem it safe to do so.”

Hosea turned towards Arthur and pointed at Albert, mouthing _You really trust this man?_ When Arthur softly smiled and nodded, he turned towards Albert and sagged his shoulders slightly, heaving a sigh. “You _really_ won’t leave without this picture, son?”

Albert tucked his elbows into his sides and made a small, winced sigh with a little shrug, shuffling even closer to his camera with an apologetic smile. Hosea turned his head to Arthur, who was looking at him with a raised, prompting brow as he slowly crossed his arms, his chest vibrating with barely restrained chuckles. Hosea groaned and squinted at nothing in particular, then tromped off towards the creek.

Once Hosea beleagueredly positioned himself in front of the camera, Albert gestured at Arthur and waved him towards Hosea. “You too, Mr. Morgan! I want you both together!”

“Oh?” Arthur started, leaning back on his heels slightly, but as Albert continued emphatically waving him on and Hosea drawled a dry _Ha!,_ he shook his head with a huffed laugh and slowly made his way over to stand next to Hosea. Hosea stood rigidly and scowled at the camera, and Arthur, never really knowing what to do for these things, squinted at the camera against the setting western sun, his hands hanging awkwardly at his sides.

“Act natural!” Albert called out to them, ducking his head under his camera cover.

Hosea and Arthur glanced at each other. “Natural how?” Arthur called out.

“Loosen up a little!”

Hosea huffed and shook his head. “I’m not one for pictures, son! This is as loose as I get!”

Arthur nudged him with his elbow and grinned. “Surely we could try some poses?”

Hosea narrowed his eyes. “Poses? What poses?”

“I dunno…! Poses!” Arthur forced an awkward smile and shuffled his feet so that his back was turned to Hosea, his head turned over his shoulder towards the camera. Hosea quirked a skeptical eyebrow but mirrored the pose behind him, and they both crossed their arms.

“...Nah,” Hosea said, dropping his arms to instead manhandle Arthur around to face forward again. “That’s much too cheesy, even for me. Here.” He leaned against Arthur with his elbow on his shoulder and casually crossed his ankles, leaving Arthur to balk and chuckle.

“What the hell am _I_ supposed to do?”

“Figure it out,” Hosea said with a shrug.

“Naw, naw, naw,” Arthur shook his head, shoving Hosea off with a wide grin, and Hosea turned back to him with a wide smirk, “I ain’t being no tree. How’s _this?”_ He slung an arm around Hosea’s shoulders and cocked a hip.

Hosea tried to sling his arm around Arthur’s shoulders and shift his stance into something comfortable, but gave up with a soft growl - Arthur was just a touch too tall. “Well now _I_ can’t figure out what to do with my arms and legs!”

Arthur laughed as Hosea brushed off his arm and shoved at him, so he shoved Hosea back, and they both shoved at each other a few more times before they both dissolved into deep laughter, reaching out to fondly hold each other’s shoulders and steady themselves.

A bright flash caught them both off-guard.

“Perfect!” Albert chirped, sticking his head out from under his cover.

“Now hold on, we weren’t ready-!” Hosea said quickly, only to be distracted by Arthur’s laughter turning into a bout of coughing. Arthur waved him off as he hacked into his sleeve, then spat out a glob of phlegm onto the rocks as Hosea squeezed his shoulder.

Albert immediately set to work disassembling his camera, throwing anxious looks at Arthur. “Is it still all right for me to accompany you gentlemen to dinner? I fully understand if you’d rather rest than entertain my silly self.”

Arthur swallowed thickly and braced himself against Hosea, slowly heaving in wary, pained breaths as his limbs began to tremble with the weakness that always washed over him whenever he was active for too long. Hosea held him tightly against his side and rubbed a heavy hand around his chest, and when Arthur glanced at the man’s face, he saw the same pinched, worried expression he always got when Arthur got like this. With a wary sigh, Arthur slowly lifted his head to look at Albert. “I… I’m sorry, friend, but I think I’m all worn out for the day.”

Albert snapped the latches shut on his camera case and stood up with it, rubbing the back of his neck. “I’m staying in a hotel in the city, so I’ll be heading the same way as you gentlemen. Is it all right if I follow you back to your house, and perhaps I can knock on your door for lunch tomorrow?”

“Arthur?” Hosea prompted quietly.

Arthur looked at Hosea again, then slowly turned his head towards and nodded at Albert. “That sounds real nice, Mr. Mason,” he breathed.

Albert’s expression softened considerably, and the corners of his eyes crinkled as he smiled. “You honor me, truly, Sir. And thank you both so much for allowing me to take your photograph!”

“’Course,” Arthur grunted. He took a slow breath, patted Hosea on the back to prompt him to let go, then whistled for Killer.

The slow, easy, lazy ride back into Denver for the three of them passed without any further incident, and as the sun set fully below the horizon and the sky turned dark, allowing the stars to emerge from behind the hazy veil of light, Arthur looked to his side at Albert where he was breathlessly dumping information about how cowbirds laid their eggs in other birds’ nests and abandoned them to be raised by completely different species of birds, then looked ahead where Hosea was patiently nodding along and occasionally glancing back at Arthur to smirk and twitch his head conspiratorially towards Albert, and decided that perhaps – just maybe – the day wasn’t all that bad.

\--

Arthur was roused from his morning doze by Hosea’s hand gently wrapping around his arm and shaking it. “Ugh, hn?”

“Mornin’. Again,” Hosea chuckled. “You best get up if you wanna wear something other than pajamas when your friend Mr. Mason arrives. It’s eleven thirty.”

Arthur gently grunted and slowly pushed himself upright, rubbing groggily at his face. “All right, all right, give me a minute,” he grumbled.

Hosea headed back downstairs to start prepping lunch, and Arthur dragged himself over to his dresser. He didn’t have very many clothes to hem and haw over because money had always been so tight. Arthur only really had his beat up jacket, old stained blue shirt, and threadbare jeans, the prim getup he wore to get through Blackwater, and one of the outfits he’d kept in his saddlebags. Hosea awkwardly asked for the other one so that he had more than just one outfit, and hemmed it down to fit his smaller frame so he wouldn’t have to go out and spend money on clothes. The only clothes Hosea actually bought in Denver were fine cotton pajama shirts and pants for them both – _“Because by God, after the shit we’ve been through? We deserve to lounge in some goddamn pajamas, and I’ll stab any man who says otherwise.”_

Arthur decided to go with the white pinstriped high-collar button-up, if only because it fit him better than the other two, then grabbed a pair of soft blue cloth pants – comfortable yet presentable. It was with great surprise that he only managed to get his pajamas off before he heard a knock on the front door from downstairs. He threw a frantic look at his alarm clock – eleven thirty-seven – then at his wide open door before cursing and fumbling to yank his pants on, listening to the muffled sounds of Hosea opening the door and greeting Albert downstairs followed immediately by an order to take his boots off before walking on his clean floors.

After finally buttoning the top button of his shirt and tucking it into his pants, Arthur carefully walked down the stairs in socked feet and was greeted with the sight of Albert sitting at the dining table, his boots and hat tucked away by the door, twiddling his thumbs while Hosea cooked a meal of tomato soup and bread rolls. When Arthur reached the last step and cleared his throat, Albert whipped his head up and sighed in relief. “Oh, Mr. Morgan! It’s so good to see you! I hope you’re doing well?”

“’Bout as well as I can be,” Arthur chuckled, settling into the chair at the head of the table. “S’good to see ya, too.”

Albert smiled at him and ducked his head a little, then took a deep breath and drummed his hands on the table. “Your home is delightfully airy! It’s almost like I’m still outside.”

Arthur snorted. "Hosea read about TB patients needing 'copious fresh air and air flow' _one time_ and our house has been like this ever since."

"And it's yielding results, _ain't it?"_ Hosea quipped from the range.

Arthur huffed but smiled despite himself, and Albert smiled with him, glancing between them both before asking "Is it just the two of you here? Do you have anyone who helps with the day to day?"

"Naw, it's just us," Arthur sighed.

"To his dismay," Hosea drawled.

Arthur jabbed his thumb in Hosea's direction and wrinkled his nose. "Only 'cause we're a pair of crippled fools barely able to function."

"It's 'cause you're _bored!"_

"Are you saying we _ain't-?"_

"I'm not denying it, I'm just saying you're also bored of me!"

"Well excuse me for the fact that if I see one more game of rummy I'm gonna hurl!"

Albert giggled behind his hand and shook his head. "I- dear goodness, it sounds like you two have quite the days here!"

Arthur rolled his eyes and vaguely gestured with his hand as he drawled, "Long… empty… dull… yeah, quite the days!"

Albert extended a hand halfway towards him on the table. "What were your hobbies before all this? Asides from saving strange men from various wildlife, of course."

Arthur chuckled softly and turned his attention fully on Albert, exchanging a fond smile with him. "Oh, I'd… go huntin'. Or wandering, exploring… I always did love the outdoors. I've…" He fiddled with his hands a bit. "...never been much of a man for houses."

Albert hummed softly. "I am quite a man of houses myself, in a love affair with the wilderness. Sometimes I think about divorcing the indoors, but, well - you've seen about how competent I am. I fear fools don't live long in nature, and I am but a fool." He listlessly rested his head in his hand. "It appears an affair is all I'll ever manage, bound to civilization as I am. The old ball and chain, as it were."

Hosea came over from the kitchen, then, carrying a tray with three bowls of soup, a large platter of rolls, and three glasses of milk before shakily setting it down on the table, spilling some of the soup over the rims. He made a face at it, then sighed and sat down heavily next to Arthur. He looked across at Albert as he pulled his bowl over and grabbed a roll, Arthur and Albert both following suit, then said, “I used to feel the same way, until I found my wife. With the right person in your life, staying in one place can be the most freeing thing in the world. And there’s in-betweens between living as a nomadic ruffian and a city boy. Ranch life, subsistence farming… They have the best of both worlds, in my opinion.”

“You have a wife?” Albert asked in surprise, and Arthur winced, bracing himself.

“Had,” Hosea corrected easily with a simple shrug, dunking his roll in his soup and taking a bite. “She’s been dead for twelve years. Doesn't stop me from thinking about her every day, though.”

“Oh, I… I’m sorry,” Albert said awkwardly, his spoon frozen halfway to his mouth. His brow pinched and he ducked his head slightly. “I feel right foolish. Please, forgive me.” Hosea waved him off, and Albert quickly looked aside at Arthur, desperate to change the subject. “What else did you do before coming here, Mr. Morgan?”

Arthur finished slurping his spoonful of soup and swallowed, coughing slightly. “‘Sides murderin’?”

Albert huffed and quickly swallowed his own spoonful of soup before holding up a hand. “You are a far gentler soul than most _priests_ I’ve met, my good man, and between you and Mr. Matthews here, I’m starting to believe that I should acquaint myself with more murderers.”

“As long as they ain’t wolves,” Arthur chuckled, and Albert snorted before glancing beseechingly upwards, delicately touching his chest.

Hosea, who’d been watching them both with a slowly-expanding grin, drawled “I sense a story here” before taking another bite of his roll.

Albert beamed. “Oh! Why, Mr. Morgan here had the good graces to happen upon me right after I’d hung a great big carcass from a tree to draw in a pack of wolves to photograph, which he informed me was a right foolish idea, and then promptly saved my life once they decided I was more appetizing than the carcass!” His expression grew crestfallen. “The poor things.”

Arthur and Hosea slowly shared a look as Albert continued to eat, Hosea with his lips pursed and trembling with the effort to hold back a laugh, and Arthur gave him a toothy grin before shaking his head.

They continued their meal like that, talking easily between the three of them as they swapped stories about their lives. Albert learned that Hosea and Arthur met after Arthur stole from him and Dutch, Hosea learned that Arthur met Albert by chasing a coyote who stole his bag full of meat, and Arthur learned that Albert grew up as a single child of two distant parents in Providence before moving to Boston to try and make it on his own as a photographer. 

Just as they were on their last bites, Albert turned to Arthur and asked, “So what would you like to do? As a career, I mean. Outside of being an outlaw.”

Arthur rose his brow, then slowly sighed. “A… a rancher, I guess? Workin’ with horses. They make me happy.” He smiled down at his bowl for a long moment, his expression softening. “Sometimes I wish there was a career in art. ‘Sides paintin’, I mean. I’ve been meanin’ to get into that, too, but…”

"Oh, there's many different forms of art that one can make a career out of! Photography is one of them!" Albert gushed immediately before laying an excited hand on Arthur's forearm. "And you've been wanting to paint?!"

Hosea crossed his legs and leaned back in his chair, resting his elbow on the back. "Yes, Arthur, you've been wanting to paint?" he asked, mimicking Albert's rising tone with a grin.

Arthur blushed and used the last bit of his roll to mop up the last of his soup. "I doubt I'd be any good…" he mumbled.

 _"Nonsense,"_ Albert said immediately, squeezing his arm. "Art is in the eye of the beholder! I, for one, see more value in the chaotic fingerpainting of a child than in many works hung on display in museums. You should try it! Let the spirit of art flow through you - paint whatever you want to paint!"

"Well it ain't like I can just whip out my easel and a whole bunch o' colors and paint a landscape," Arthur huffed. "Paintin's too expensive a hobby. It ain't for me."

Hosea slowly frowned. "Well surely we can-"

"Don't worry about it, 'Sea," Arthur said softly.

Hosea squinted at him at the same time Albert's eyes thoughtfully shifted to the side.

"Well," Albert huffed, letting go of Arthur to pat his stomach and look down at his empty bowl, "I must thank you gentlemen profusely for inviting me into your home and sharing your lunch. You are both much too kind, truly."

"It ain't nothin'" Arthur drawled at the same time Hosea chirped "Glad to have you!"

Albert looked up at them both with a shy smile and rose from his chair. "I best be leaving. So much to do, so many photos to take and develop, you know how it is!" he chuckled, and Arthur and Hosea rose as well. Albert extended his hand to Arthur, and Arthur happily took it, smiling a little brighter when Albert used both of his hands to shake it. "It always brightens my day to see you, Mr. Morgan."

"Please, call me Arthur," Arthur gruffed, stumbling on his words slightly. 

Albert squeezed his hand tighter. “Then please, call me Albert.” They smiled at each other for a long few seconds before Albert turned to shake Hosea’s hand from across the table. “And it is a pleasure to share your company as well, Mr. Matthews!”

“The same to you, Mr. Mason,” Hosea said with a grin. 

After Albert and Hosea were finished shaking hands, Albert straightened up and looked at them both, patting his thighs absently, before jolting slightly and grabbing his satchel before hurrying towards his boots and hat. After putting them back on, he opened the front door and turned back to look at them, awkwardly shuffling his feet a little. “I’ll see you around! Take care of yourselves, now!”

“Take care!” Arthur and Hosea called back with little waves. Albert smiled at them one last time, then shut the door behind him. Arthur chuckled gently and gathered up all of their dishes to take to the sink - washing dishes being one of the few chores Hosea acquiesced to him - while Hosea eased himself back down into his chair. 

Arthur was halfway done with the washing when Hosea finally raised a finger to point at the door, then flicked it as if it was a fired gun. “That man is a queer. I like him.”

The glass Arthur was washing slipped out of his hands as his eyes bulged. _“‘Sea!”_

“It _takes one_ to _know one,”_ Hosea drawled, his voice high with feigned innocence as he shrugged and grinned.

Arthur grumbled as he went back to the washing, ignoring Hosea’s laughter.

\--

Three days after their shared lunch, Arthur sat up in bed when he heard a knock on the front door.

“Agh, dammit,” he grumbled, closing his journal where he’d been sketching to glance at the clock. Eight fifty in the morning. A knock came once more at the door, and Arthur swore again, hauling himself out of bed and onto his feet. Hosea would be out running errands until at least ten, which meant Arthur had to see who the hell was at the door. In his pajamas, no less.

After groggily slouching his way down the stairs, he roughly called out “I’m comin’!” before reaching the front door and opening it a crack, peering out with narrowed eyes.

He jolted when he saw Albert standing cheerily on their porch. 

“Albert?” Arthur wheezed, opening the door fully.

Albert started in surprise at the sight of Arthur in his pajamas and clutched his chest. “Oh, good heavens! I- I-I didn’t mean to intrude! Oh goodness, I didn’t disturb your rest, did I?”

Arthur slowly smiled and shook his head. “Just disturbed my boredom, friend. Please, come in!”

“Actually, uh,” Albert started, tapping his fingers anxiously together, “I was wondering if you would… go out with me?” he offered, pointing a thumb behind him at a horse and wagon waiting on the road.

“Go _out_ with ya?” Arthur asked, cocking a hip to lounge against the doorway. “Where?”

Albert shuffled his feet again, vibrating with nervous energy and looking like he didn’t know what to do with his hands. “It’s actually a bit of a, uh - a surprise!”

Arthur hesitated, looking over his shoulder back into the house. He was about to open his mouth and say _I should wait for Hosea to get back and ask-_

Then paused.

Narrowed his eyes.

He was a _grown goddamn man,_ wasn’t he?

Arthur looked back at Albert and held up a hand. "Give me a little while to get dressed," he said quickly, "I'll be right with ya!"

Albert nodded excitedly and skipped off back towards the wagon while Arthur closed the door and hastened his step towards the stairs.

Twenty minutes later, Arthur left his note to Hosea saying where he’d gone on the dining room table and slipped out the front door, a little breathless, and carefully made his way towards the wagon where Albert was sitting at the reins. "Thanks for waitin'."

"No trouble at all, Sir, no trouble at all," Albert said warmly as Arthur clambered up into the wagon beside him. "And, we're off!"

Albert flicked the reins and the gentle mouse-brown steed snorted before pulling the wagon up to the pace of a lazy trot.

“You takin’ me off for more run-ins with ill-advised animals?” Arthur joked, elbowing Albert gently in the side.

Albert giggled and ducked his head, keeping his eyes forward, a slight flush rising to his cheeks. “Oh, hopefully not.” Arthur clapped him on the shoulder, and they exchanged a pair of bright smiles.

They traveled in an exchange of easy small talk for about fifty minutes, rolling beyond the city limits and into the countryside before Albert guided them onto a side road and finally pulled the horse to a stop at the base of a grassy hill. 

“We’re here!” Albert chirped, hopping down from the wagon to make his way towards the back. “Do you mind helping me carry some of these supplies to the top of the hill, Arthur?”

“Sure,” Arthur said easily, easing himself down from the wagon to walk around. When Albert tossed back the tarp, Arthur blinked in surprise at a pair of easels, two canvases, two palettes, and two cases of brushes and paints. Arthur slowly looked at Albert, who was quickly grabbing the canvases, the palettes, and one of the cases, red rising more and more profusely in his cheeks by the second. Arthur stood in flabbergasted shock before chuckling, “You takin’ me paintin’?!”

“After everything you have done for me, my friend, this is the least I can do,” Albert replied with a grunt, hauling the supplies up to balance precariously in his arms before shooting Arthur a sheepish smile and scurrying up the hill. Arthur fondly shook his head before grabbing the two easels and the last case.

When Arthur finally trudged his way up to the top of the hill, his breath was stolen from him - and mercifully, not from the plague in his lungs.

For there, where he stood overlooking the expanse of the Colorado countryside, stretching for miles and miles, was an ocean of warm golden grass, billowing in waves towards a gentle arc of hills in the distance, covered in a thick blanket of dense forest, trees of all kinds in bright jubilant yellows and oranges and reds, stretching all the way to the snow-capped mountains looming as gentle guardians in the distance. A river wound down through the hills and through the grassland before them, flowing towards Denver, with fish leaping intermittently in its waters. A herd of wild horses with a myriad of beautifully patterned coats stood grazing about a half mile off, and eagles soared overhead, carried on the same wind that gently caressed their faces and their hair.

“...Damn,” Arthur breathed, his voice thick.

“I thought this place might serve as some inspiration,” Albert said quietly. “All this beautiful land is going to be swallowed up by Man one of these days. I try my best to immortalize the wildlife in my photographs, to try and preserve them, but… you know, painting… That’s a special kind of immortalization. It’s the immortalization of memory, really. So I thought- y’know. It might be nice, or, y-you might enjoy it if you uh- painted with me.”

Arthur threw him a glance and a grin as he set the paint case down and started setting up the easels. “Enjoy it?! This is everything I needed! I _really_ appreciate this, Al- Can I call ya Al?”

“S-Sure,” Albert stuttered, placing the canvases on the easels after Arthur set them up.

In short order, both men were ready with their brushes and palettes in hand, staring at the white of their canvases with a bucket of water between them gathered from the river. Arthur licked his lips and swallowed before saying, “So, uh… How do I do this?”

Albert blinked down at his own palette and shrugged. “Goodness knows _I_ have no idea. Whatever…” he vaguely gestured with his palette “...strikes us, I suppose.” And with that, he delicately took his large brush and brushed it through some gold paint, then started wildly scrubbing at his canvas with it.

Arthur looked back at his own canvas, then looked to the scenery stretched out before them. He tilted his head one way, then the other, then looked down at his colors. Sketching with pencils was mostly a delicate balance of suggestions, of creating shadows and light to form shapes. Perhaps painting was the same way, only with colors. After a bit more careful thought, Arthur slowly dragged his blush through the blue, then dragged out a bit of white to mix it into a soft sky blue, then set to work.

It was the most soothing, meditative experience he’d had in years.

After about fifty minutes, both men stepped back to inspect their work. Albert’s attempt at painting the scene before them mostly consisted of rough, short, choppy strokes in a cacophony of harsh colors that, put all together, formed a rough impression of busy life and clashing landforms. Arthur’s, in contrast, consisted of long, smooth strokes and gentle, smudgy suggestions in a myriad of softly blended colors that softly showed the landscape below like a reflection in water.

“Oh, my,” Albert said softly, taking another half-step back. “Yours is... _beautiful,_ Arthur.”

Arthur made a face at it and ducked his head. “N’aw, it ain’t much…”

“Surely you’re joking!” Albert said with a shrill huff of laughter. “Look at it! It’s gorgeous! And I mean- look at mine! I’ve just made a mess!”

“Don’t say that,” Arthur gruffed, sidling closer to Albert to whack him on the shoulder and point at the man’s painting. “I like it! It’s just different, and that ain’t bad! I mean look at this, here,” he said, gesturing at Albert’s horizon, where the noisy colors of the forest and the sharp angles of the mountains met and slightly ran into a deep blue sky, “That’s pretty, right there! And you got a texturey thing goin’ on. Makes me wanna run my hands over it.”

Albert’s cheeks and ears turned pink as he crossed over Arthur to point at Arthur’s painting. “Yet again, look at yours! It looks so much more realistic!” He gestured at the flowing waters and white foam of the river in Arthur’s painting and the distant horse herd grazing in the grass, highlighted by the sun. “How do you-?! I mean, really, Arthur, are you sure you’ve never painted before?!”

Arthur smiled and felt a blush rising to his own cheeks as he fidgeted with his brush. “I really haven’t, I promise, it’s just… Really, I just tried to turn what I do when I sketch into what might work with... all these colors and paints and such.”

Albert’s entire expression lit up as he whirled on Arthur, a bright smile gracing his face. “You sketch?! Oh, can I see?!”

Arthur braced himself and stiffened, coughing a few times into his jacket collar. “I mean… it’s in my journal…”

Albert paled and quickly looked away, clutching his palette in both hands. “Oh, forgive me - I-I’d never expect you to- That is, I didn’t mean to-” He sucked in a breath and looked at Arthur, bowing his head slightly. “I never want to intrude.”

Arthur hesitated for a long moment, then slowly set his palette and brush down on the ground with a soft sigh. “I can… show you some pages. Just- Just don’t read the words, all right?”

Albert’s eyes widened to the size of saucers and he nodded quickly, almost throwing his own palette and brush on the ground before anxiously shuffling towards Arthur as he slowly pulled out his journal. With the cover towards Albert, Arthur opened it and thumbed through it until he found two pages full of nothing but sketches of animals and plants. After glancing between his journal and Albert for a few long moments, he shyly ducked his head and turned his journal around for the man to look. Albert gasped softly and flew a hand up to his chest, his jaw dropping at the sight.

“You… drew these…?” Albert breathed.

Arthur blushed further and scuffed his boot through the grass, turning his journal around to flip to the pages he drew the legendary buck he’d hunted. “I mean, yeah,” he mumbled, turning his journal around only for Albert to gasp again and clutch his chest tighter. “They ain’t… that special…”

“Arthur…” Albert said quietly, eyes skittering over the sketch as he drifted a hand closer to the pages, only to curl his fingers and tuck his hand back. He raised his gaze to meet Arthur’s eyes, then stood up to his full height and squared his shoulders back. “Have you ever thought about being a wildlife illustrator?”

“A wildlife illustrator?” Arthur stammered, closing his journal and tucking it back into his satchel.

“Yes! A wildlife illustrator! Like in scientific texts!” Albert gushed, reaching forward to grab Arthur’s elbows and draw his eyes back to him. “You have a _gift,_ Arthur! Your art, in its realism, its attention to detail, the way you capture these plants and these animals - I genuinely believe you could make a career illustrating field journals and have scientists begging at your feet to commission you for their work!”

Arthur blinked, stupefied. “A c-career? Drawin’?” He huffed a laugh and shook his head. “But they’re just sketches!”

“There is nothing ‘just’ about them, Sir!” Albert insisted, squeezing Arthur’s elbows and giving them a little shake. “Please, I beg of you! Do not squander this gift! You deserve to share them with people, with the world!”

“I… well, golly,” Arthur chuckled, ducking his head. “That’s mighty kind of you, Al. Y- You are far too kind.”

“I am just the right amount of kind,” Albert insisted, clapping Arthur hard on the shoulder, and they exchanged warm smiles before Arthur turned back towards their paintings and the shining land of Colorado, the wind picking up yet again to gently caress their faces and ruffle their collars, bringing with it all the comforting scents and sounds of autumn.

“...It’s beautiful country, ain’t it?” Arthur said softly.

“...Beautiful indeed,” Albert murmured, his gaze lingering on Arthur for a long moment before he finally turned his gaze towards the distant mountains.

\--

Over the course of the next three weeks, Albert became a fairly frequent visitor.

Hosea’s pale, quietly threatening ire when they’d returned home from their painting expedition quailed them both away from secret outings afterwards - Arthur because of guilt, Albert because Hosea threatened to shoot him - but fortunately they still managed to have weekly painting sessions in the backyard and even go on gentle rides together a couple times a week, allowing Hosea some personal, private time to himself in the house to decompress and rest without having to worry about Arthur. Shabbat, from sundown on Friday to sundown on Saturday, remained a sacred time for Hosea and Arthur to be able to spend quality time together, and Arthur found himself smiling each time he came downstairs to see his painting of the Colorado countryside hanging over their fireplace mantle as their house’s first official decoration. 

Between Albert’s visits and Arthur picking up a few low-labor-intensive chores, Hosea’s hands stopped shaking quite so much and he stopped crashing in various locations around the house, which significantly reduced the anxiety clinging around them both and made their home feel that much brighter, their bickering easing away to be replaced by easy laughter and easier silences. Albert’s friendship outside of Hosea also did Arthur a world of good, diversifying his days and helping his mind focus on things other than the dark pitfalls lurking in his memories.

It was on one of these visits, after Hosea finished waving at them from the porch and ambled back inside as they rode into the city, that Arthur noticed Albert was acting… strange. Stranger than usual, at least. The man was practically vibrating in his saddle and was weirdly sweaty despite the cool evening air, and every time Arthur looked over at him, the man snapped his eyes forward between his horse’s ears and stopped breathing.

“You okay, Al?” Arthur hedged when they were a few blocks into the city proper, the lazy _clip clop_ of their horses’ hooves serving as a stark juxtaposition against Albert’s rapid breaths.

“J-Just fine!” Albert stuttered. 

Arthur leaned in his saddle to peer at him, ducking his head to try and meet his eyes from where he was riding on his Morgan, whose frame was far smaller than Killer’s proud thoroughbred stature. Arthur could not for the life of him spy Albert’s eyes from under his hat. “You sure?”

“Quite!” Albert replied, his voice almost a squeak.

“...Well all right then,” Arthur drawled, sitting up in his saddle again and sharing a look with Killer. Arthur smiled and shrugged, and Killer shook out his mane and snorted.

About twenty minutes later, Albert led them up to hitching posts that stood alongside a boardwalk, which ran parallel to the river that flowed through the city. The sun was settling low on the horizon and the city’s lanterns were being lit as they dismounted, painting Denver in soft, warm oranges as the sky above faded to a warm, rosy lilac. After hitching their horses and feeding them treats of apples, they walked along the river for a short ways, gazing out at the shimmering reflections of the evening lights, before Albert drifted over to a bench and sat down. Arthur settled down beside him and crossed his legs, leaning back with his elbows on the top of the bench. Albert, meanwhile, was sitting so straight it looked painful.

"...Arthur?" Albert prompted, quietly.

Arthur looked over at him. "Yeah, Al?"

Albert folded his hands in his lap. "What are your thoughts on… men?"

Arthur quirked his brow up before looking out to the river. "Not too different from my thoughts on women, I reckon."

"I see, I see," Albert said quietly. "And, erm… what are your thoughts on… men being… in relations with each other?"

Arthur snorted and looked back at Albert. "Well, I'd be a mighty good hypocrite or a mighty good moron if I thought poorly of that, considerin' I was _raised_ by two men 'in relations.'"

Albert jolted in surprise. "Oh? Was this before Hosea? What happened to them?"

Arthur smiled, then frowned. "One of them _was_ Hosea. The other one was Dutch."

"...van der Linde?" Albert asked, as if there was any other Dutchman who simply went by 'Dutch.'

Arthur sighed and looked away again. "The very same. Them two have been together for more than twenty years, though… what that exactly means is anyone's guess." He shrugged. "They both always denied they loved each other anyway. Romantically, at least." Arthur slowly rubbed at his eyes. "Dutch always taught me love between men ain't shameful, even though he seemed ashamed of it himself."

"...Ah," Albert said delicately, sensing the thorn in Arthur's side. "And what about… you?"

Arthur glanced at him. "Me?"

"Yes! W-What about you? And… men?" Albert shifted in his seat. “Would you ever love one?”

"Well, I…" Arthur rubbed his hands over his knees and uncrossed his legs. A buzzing, discordant symphony started up in his gut, sparking dueling images of yellowed teeth and gentle brown eyes. "I-I- yeah. I reckon…" A shiver rolled through his frame and his heart rate picked up. 

Albert's hand curling around his grounded him back down from whatever whirlpool he was slipping into, and Arthur looked aside into his wide hazel eyes as Albert said, “Then- If I may-” Albert dragged in a deep breath, then slowly let it out, clasping Arthur’s hand in both of his. “I must confess I do not enjoy the company of most people. In fact, I once thought that if I were able to spend the rest of my days alone in seclusion with nothing but nature and her animals for company, I would die a happy man. But… lately, I… I’ve been thinking. About my fondness for you, and how easy your friendship feels to me. And so I-... Well, that is to say that I-... Would you be interested in…?” Albert pursed his lips and clenched Arthur’s hand tightly. “In something beyond friendship? With me?”

Everything in Arthur’s head went silent and blank. He stared into Albert’s eyes, then down at their hands, then back up at Albert’s face. 

Then, all at once, a deep, sharp, aching pain sliced through his heart as all of his senses flooded with _Charles._

His wide, toothy smile, his calloused hands, the way the wind carried his hair, the way the sun shone off of his beautiful dark skin, rich as the soil that nurtured a lush forest, the sound of his voice, the gentlest deep notes that wrapped around Arthur like an embrace and trickled through all of his walls and defenses like water, his smell, comforting and familiar even after all this time apart, like ozone after a lightning strike and a meadow after rain, mixed with something muskier and earthy. Everything about Charles - his body, his voice, his smell - made Arthur feel at peace in a way nothing and no one ever did before.

It was the entire reason why he tried to never, ever, think of Charles.

Albert squeezed Arthur’s hand again, and Arthur broke.

“Ohhhh, _Hell,”_ he rasped out, his voice fractured and splintered as he dragged himself up off the bench to pace back and forth, clutching his head. “Oh, I’m a _fool!”_

Albert looked very distinctly like a frightened rabbit where he sat clutching his chest on the bench. “I-I-I-I’m sorry? Surely I am the fool here?” he asked shrilly.

Arthur waved him off and shook his head, a little frantic. “No, no, you didn’t do anything wrong,” he wheezed, feeling like he couldn’t catch his breath. He staggered over to a tree and leaned against it, rubbing at his chest as his lungs rattled and threatened to seize into coughs. “I just… Oh, Lord... “ He buried his face in his forearm where it rested against the tree. “I… I’m in love with someone else,” he confessed, his voice ragged.

Behind him, he heard Albert heave a relieved breath. “Oh, good heavens,” he wheezed, “I was half fearful I’d be struck! This is the best rejection I could hear, truly!”

“I’d never hit you,” Arthur managed, peeking over his shoulder. “And I- I’m _sorry,_ Al, I truly am.”

“There is _no need!”_ Albert insisted, slowly rising to his feet to venture closer to Arthur. He rested a light, hesitant hand on Arthur’s back, and Arthur cringed away, making him flinch it back.

“No, just… firm… not light,” Arthur mumbled.

Albert’s hand returned to his back, pushing down hard and firm, and Arthur’s breaths came a little easier. Albert shuffled a little closer still and leaned around to look into Arthur’s face, his brow furrowed in worry. “Do you… want to talk about it?”

“I…” Arthur slowly breathed for a few moments, trying to fight off a dizzy spell. Slowly, he knelt down into the grass to sit beneath the tree, and Albert joined him. “Maybe I should. If you’re? Comfortable…? This’s got to be… kinda awkward for ya…”

Albert warmly chuckled and pushed harder against Arthur’s back, which Arthur graciously leaned into. “I hold no ill will towards you or this supremely lucky lady or gentleman, nor have you broken my heart irreparably. So long as I have not lost your friendship…?”

Arthur softly smiled and shook his head. “Naw, you haven’t.”

Albert’s eyes twinkled. “Then that is all I could ask for. So yes, I am quite comfortable to hear whatever’s on your mind.”

Arthur nodded graciously and cleared his throat. After a long moment, he hesitantly started, “His name is Charles. He… joined our gang late last year. And he is…” he slowly smiled “...something real special.” Albert smiled back at him, and Arthur continued, “I’ve always been known to have… peculiarities? Is what Hosea calls ‘em? Like my thing with light touches. I never did know anyone else with ‘peculiarities’ like mine until Charles joined up. He was always real quiet and kept to himself, but I think we could tell that we were alike that way. I like to be quiet too. And _need_ things to be quiet, sometimes. There’d be stretches where I’d ride out from the gang for a week or more because I needed to get away from all the noise and smells and…” he made a vague hand gesture, his hand slightly clawed near his ear. “Charles would constantly ride out, too. The man hunted damn near daily. I reckon we were the only other fools in the whole gang who we wouldn’t mind coming out with us during those times, ‘cause we understood each other.”

Albert gently hummed. “It’s always nice finding another kindred soul. I’ve been scorned for being rather ‘eccentric’ myself.”

Arthur snorted and elbowed him. “Probably why we get along so well,” he joked, and after they shared a gentle laugh, Arthur sighed. “Me and Charles… we also share similarities beyond that. We were the hardest workers in the whole gang. It used to just be me - the others would always joke that if I was gone or sick or injured too long, the gang would fall apart. And, well… they weren’t wrong.” He pressed his knuckles to his mouth. “I had a bad run in with Colm O’Driscoll once. Laid me out for three weeks. I thought that I’d have a whole, nasty mess of work to catch up with, but… No. Charles picked up my labor for me. Didn’t even offer. Never complained. Though he’s always been like that right from the start - helpin’ wherever he can, making sure the others are cared for. He really became a pillar for us all. He… really became a pillar for _me.”_

“He sounds like an extraordinary man,” Albert said gently, the corners of his eyes crinkling.

“Oh, Charles is a wonder,” Arthur breathed. “He’s kind… and gentle… A _good man._ And the world ain’t been kind to him. He’s half-black and half-Native, you see.” Albert winced and nodded. “And he… has _every reason_ to be hateful. To just… make it on his own, ‘cause Lord knows he’s capable. He doesn’t have to care. He doesn’t have to do anything. But he… he does. And he tries to make others care, too. Tries to make _me_ care.” 

The memory of that terrified German family played behind his eyes, and Arthur had tried his best to brush them off, to stick to the task at hand, only for Charles to throw it back in his face and remind him that there was more to life than just _the task at hand._ That he was capable of making his own decisions. Of choosing to be kind. 

Arthur slowly clasped his hands together and started kneading them. “And I care for _him_ so much,” he whispered, hoarse. “I… I love him. And he- he loves me. Even after my diagnosis, my TB, all that… Even though I don’t understand it.” He snorted, glancing aside at Albert. “Don’t understand how you could’ve wanted me, either.”

Albert gently knocked their shoulders together. “Probably for the same reason this Charles did,” he said warmly with a wink.

Arthur smiled sadly at him and looked away. “...There’s a chance I can die, Al,” Arthur whispered. “More than a chance. Two in three, and that’s generous. Hosea’s half-killing himself to keep me alive. And I… I don’t want…” Arthur rubbed at his neck as his expression crumpled. “I don’t want to… get my hopes up with all these dreams, or get their hopes up with all these promises, and just… die on ‘em.” His voice broke, and hot tears began rolling down his face. “I don’t want them to lose more than they would already. I don’t want them to… I don’t want… I don’t…” He clapped his hand over his mouth and began to tremble. _“I don’t wanna die.”_

Albert’s expression crumpled to match his and he pushed himself up onto his knees to crush Arthur in a firm embrace, and Arthur buried his face in his shoulder, clutching at his vest.

“I’m so afraid,” Arthur choked, blinking away another wave of tears. “I’m so afraid of losin’ things. I’m so afraid of losin’ _people._ I’ve lost damn near everything there is to lose already, and I don’t want…” He quietly sobbed. “I’m afraid to love. And I’m afraid to _be loved.”_

“Oh, Arthur,” Albert said quietly, squeezing him tighter. “I’ve never been very good with words, and I- I’m struggling to think of what to say, but- know this, my dear friend. Nature… is _cruel._ In all of her- her vast majesty, I have seen horror and death beyond measure. Lives are taken every minute, from bullets or jagged jaws or disease, but lives are also born, and loves are formed just as often, and that… None of us know when we’re going to die just like the deer and the wolves who hunt them don’t. But the difference between Man and Animals is that… Well, they don’t care! The fear of death doesn’t stop them from living their lives to the fullest, or from finding mates, or making memories. They could die any minute. But if they lived in fear of that… well then… this world would be awfully empty. And there wouldn’t be much good to counter all that sadness. It’s why I decided to leave the safety of Boston to start that photography project of mine. It’s why I’ve left the city again, and why I decided to take a chance tonight, and why I don’t regret it.”

Arthur sniffled and huffed a laugh, a slow, small smile growing on his face. “You are a brave man, Albert Mason.”

“Who takes inspiration from you, dear friend,” Albert murmured, squeezing him again, and Arthur squeezed him back.

\--

The next night, after Hosea left for work, after the sun set and the stars emerged to peer down at the world, sending a cool night breeze to ghost through the house and bring with it the crisp heraldry of an incoming November, Arthur pulled out his journal and flipped it open to the next set of blank pages. He picked up his pencil, looked around his room for a long moment at the paintings he’d hung up on the walls - their colors only slightly muted by the warm orange light of his lantern - turned his head to gaze out the window at the dark of the night and listen to the hoots of an owl and the occasional nickers of Killer, then took a deep breath before looking back to the pages.

First, he sketched Mary. Her wide, soft, sorrowful eyes, the gentle angles of her face, her hair pulled back into its tired bun, her beauty mark, and the gentle slope of her mouth in a half-smile that failed to spread anywhere else.

Second, he sketched Albert. His small, bright, inquisitive eyes, his full cheeks and round beard, his shy smile, and the slight anxious pinch in his brow.

Third, he sketched Charles. His gentle, grounding gaze and the bags under his eyes, his handsome wide nose, his full lips pulled up in a soft smile that formed softer crinkles in the corners of his eyes, his long and faintly frizzy hair rolling down from his head and draping over his shoulder, the scars that sliced across his face and stretched back into his scalp.

Then, he wrote.

_Oh, I surely am a fool, and if I had any doubts before, I am certain of it now._

_This month started with me receiving a letter from Mary. She’d finally gotten tired of us breaking each other’s hearts, and I cannot bring myself to blame her. I keep thinking back to all the times that we were together, and I know that we made so many happy memories, but I can’t seem to remember them anymore, just like I can no longer imagine a happy ending between the two of us. All that is left is sadness._

_I suppose that is why she doesn’t want me in her life anymore, and after several weeks to let it sit… Maybe it’s best for me, too. To my great bewilderment and confusion, it appears that I have other chances for love in my life. I can only hope that Mary finds her new chances, too._ _Oh, Mary!_ _Be happy, please be happy._

_I ran into Albert Mason again the same day I received her letter. He was trying to photograph a pair of swans, but Hosea managed to haggle him out of it and into sharing a meal with us in exchange for snapping a picture of him and me. He snapped it in the middle of me and Hosea goofing around, so I don’t know how good the picture will turn out, but Albert assures me he’ll develop it soon and that we’ll find out._

_Ever since that day, Albert has been visiting us regularly - mostly to spend time with me, as Hosea is long overdue for time to be by himself and_ _rest_ _. We’ve been painting and riding together, and I find his friendship to be a great comfort as I keep trying to recover. The poor man had the unfortunate luck to fall for me, however, which I still don’t understand how or why. He told me last night, and I promptly burst into tears and made an absolute fool of myself raving about how much I love Charles. Somehow, Albert and I are still dear friends, for which I am thankful beyond words._

_My little breakdown helped me realize that I’ve been burying my feelings for Charles for a long while now. In truth, I’ve been burying my feelings for the man since Colter. I must have fallen for that man the moment I heard he burnt his hand lifting flaming debris so the others could escape that damned ferry. When he asked me to kill that buffalo poacher, I knew that I would do that and far more for that man. I’d kill for him, I would happily die for him - and I guess that brings me to why I’ve been a fool._

_I have always half-thought Charles telling me he loved me after my diagnosis was some kind of fever dream. I cannot for the life of me figure out what he sees in me, but I know he sees something, because he does not give his trust or his affection easily. I may not know how I’ve earned it, but it is precious to me._ _He_ _is precious to me. I want to be the man he deserves, to be able to protect him and comfort him and support him as much as he does me, but with my TB we wouldn’t even be able to so much as kiss. Charles deserves better than a broken and dying man._

_But then… Just as I know there’s a chance I’ll die… There’s a chance I can live. That I can beat this. And maybe that’s the scariest thought of all._

_I’m scared of being happy, because I’m scared of it being taken away._

_But maybe that means I’m taking it away from myself._

_Oh, Charles! I love you so much! I want to be the man you see in me, to make you happy, to share my life with you. I will fight for you, to the very gates of Hell. I want to fight for us_ _both_ _to be_ _ happy. _

With a huffed laugh and wan smile, his heart fluttering in his chest, he drew a heart on the side of the page and wrote in:

_A + C_

After staring at his journal for a long while, he slowly closed it, held it against his stomach, and allowed himself to dream of a shared future with Charles.

Of being able to hold his hand in his. Of being able to hold him close, sway with him, to dance freely and playfully to their own melody under the gorgeous spectrum of the night sky. Of being able to braid each other’s hair, or bring each other coffee after a long day of honest work. Of being able to wake up to each other’s warmth in the morning, and mold themselves into each other’s arms at night.

He dreamed of his lungs being cured from their sickness. Of being able caress his fingers along the side of Charles’s face, to trace his scars, to lean in and kiss eyelids, his nose, his lips, to know and learn his taste.

He dreamed of being able to run his hands over his chest, shirtless, to feel those hard pectorals and run his palms over the fat and muscle of his abdomen, to mold his hands to the shape of his waist. To feel Charles’s gentle, precise, calloused hands run themselves over his own flesh, to explore his own chest and stomach, to hold him by the hips, by his inner thighs.

He felt heat rise to his cheeks and pool down into his abdomen, and with a self-conscious chuckle, he tucked his journal away into the nightstand and pulled out the most recent book Hosea nabbed for him to read until his abominable milk alarm went off. A couple hours later, it did, and Arthur lazily made his way down the stairs to fetch himself a glass, letting his mind wander back to Charles as he looked around their kitchen. As he washed his glass, he imagined Charles’s arms coming to wrap around him from behind, of him being able to bury his nose in the man’s neck as they cooked together.

Half-drunk on such soft, safe thoughts, Arthur slowly made his way back up the stairs and crawled into his bed and under the covers. He blew out his lantern and nestled his face into the pillow, letting his thoughts wander once more to dreams of intimacy and comfort as he drifted off to sleep.

At some point, the heat pooled in his abdomen and in his chest raised into a painful burning that cut through him like a blunt machete. Phantom pain manifested in the form of rough hand-shaped bruises carved into his skin, of a deep, burning, tearing sensation from behind, of hot blood dripping down his thighs as hot as the tears dripping down his cheeks. Adrenaline poured through his veins, pumping through his jackrabbit-fast heartbeat like a burst dam, bleaching out every thought and sensation of warmth and safety and comfort to replace them with shadows and fear and the echoes of croaky laughter.

_Don’t you hate ol’ Sonny now… Don’t hate him..._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes, it's when we feel the safest and the most full of hope that our brains decide it's time to process past trauma.
> 
> To make it through the upcoming angst train, please accept [this playlist I made for Chapter VI](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/5AM2T9zQtg470PgbGhXCNt?si=lajb9qndSB6y96aTc1G4eA) full of Catharsis Songs.
> 
>  **1) Dutch van der Linde's Last Stand**  
>  **2) Escape from Saint Denis**  
>  **3) Escape from Lemoyne**  
>  **4) The Letter**  
>  **5) Reunions**  
>  **6) Unfinished Business**  
>  **7) I Know You**  
>  **8) Dreams, Omens, and Other Harbingers**  
>  **9) For Whom the Bell Tolls**  
>  **10) My First Boy**  
>  **11) National Jewish Health**  
>  **12) Sins of the Past**  
>  **13) Atonement**  
>  **14) Arcadia for Amateurs VI**  
>  15) Violated


	15. Violated

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warning** for intense, graphic, in-depth, and at-length exploration of **rape** and its aftermath, a prolonged PTSD episode related to rape involving **explicit flashbacks, suicidal ideation, victim-blaming** (from Arthur to himself), and finally, references to **miscarriage** and **child death,** and **gore.**
> 
> A lot... has happened, between now and when last I posted a chapter. And while I know it's _okay_ that writing this chapter has taken so long, I still want to explain why it has.
> 
> Shortly after I posted chapter 14, my disabled mother suffered a fall and severely broke her foot; the urgent care insisted I rush her to the hospital, and there we found out she needed surgery. I've always been a caretaker for my mother, but her injury made her fully physically dependent on me, and I've had to become the equivalent of an at-home nurse. On top of that, my mother's cat took sick (and I also had to completely take over the care for him as well), and my partner suffered a prolonged mental health crisis. All of this happened at once. And all of this combined into _me_ having a mental health crisis, including a PTSD episode that echoed my Hell Year - which included the trauma that I drew from in order to write this chapter. My own sexual assault.
> 
> Writing this chapter while actively suffering a PTSD episode of my own sexual assault made writing this... nigh impossible. It made me physically sick. I had frequent anxiety attacks and dissociative fugues. I almost gave up on writing it entirely. I had multiple breakdowns where I worried I'd have to abandon this fic.
> 
> Thankfully, though, I have an incredible and loving support network that kept my head above the water, and heart-achingly dear friends who kept my head above the water and comforted me, who told me it was okay to put this chapter on the back-burner and focus on my own health. I instead wrote a whole bunch of other fic to comfort myself during that nightmarish period - and slowly, things got better. All of my family members are doing well now, and I've emerged out the other end of my PTSD episode. I threw myself back into writing this chapter with renewed purpose, and the past few days I've been so passionate about this work I've been clocking in at roughly 5,000 words per day.
> 
>  **This chapter is dearly, intensely important to me** because I have always meant for it to be a cathartic piece for me regarding surviving my attack, as well as giving Arthur's rape in-game the amount of weight and gravity it deserves. With this work, I never want to deal with any subject for... angst's sake alone or for shock value. I want The Matthews Family to be a story of _recovery_ , and that's what this chapter is - I mirrored Arthur's struggle with his sexual assault directly from my own. Arthur goes through nothing in this chapter that I haven't gone through myself (aside from tuberculosis), so the content of this chapter is very... heavy. That said, it also contains all the lessons I've learned from my recovery, and every sentiment I used to hurt myself is refuted. This chapter ends on a positive note, but I still urge care and caution. If you want to skip this chapter entirely and wait for the next one, that is _okay._ You don't have to read this ♥
> 
>  **Lastly, I want to dedicate this chapter to every man who's ever been the victim of sexual assault.** We are not a joke. We are not a punchline. And to all other survivors of sexual assault, my heart goes out to all of us. Arthur Morgan would love and protect us all ♥

**_November, 1899_ **

“Can you breathe in for me?”

Arthur slowly dragged in a painful breath into his tortured lungs, cringing slightly at the cold burn of Zieglar’s stethoscope against his chest.

“And release.”

Arthur let the breath escape with a sharp rattle, and Zieglar sucked in his cheek as he leaned away, turning to lower the ear pieces and wipe down the chest piece with an alcohol rag. His expression was furrowed in disgruntled thought, and Arthur saw Hosea’s expression pinch even tighter than it already was where he hovered in the doorway, his arms crossed so tightly Arthur could see the whites of his knuckles through his hands.

Arthur wet his lips and swallowed. “Well…?”

Doctor Zieglar sighed heavily and turned to look at him apologetically. “Your condition has worsened again. I’m afraid I must yet again prescribe _absolute_ bedrest.” Both Arthur and Hosea cringed as Zieglar sat down in the bedside chair. “Now, Mr. Jones, relapses are normal with tuberculosis, and there shouldn’t be any cause for alarm just yet. Just like your condition improved before, it can improve again. These things happen, and I simply recommend you manage it as you did before, since it obviously worked last time. Now, as to the reason why you have worsened, well - there doesn’t have to be any particular reason. I most _certainly_ don’t want you to feel like you are at fault, but- has anything changed recently? Have you been overexerting yourself in your exercise?”

Arthur shook his head. “Naw, I… I swear, Doc, I’ve just been riding for an hour at most at a walk, or just doing the dishes or watering the horses. Not on the same day, neither.”

Zieglar hummed and nodded. “Have you been getting enough airflow? Enough sunlight?”

Arthur huffed - and winced slightly. He nodded.

Zieglar rubbed thoughtfully at his beard, furrowing his brow. “Have you been getting enough rest? Sleep, naps?”

Arthur hesitated.

“...Not really.”

Hosea’s eyes darted over to him and Arthur saw his entire expression start twisting in concern before Zieglar stole his attention back by saying, “What changed?”

_Greasy hands dark shadows tobacco spit throbbing head belt buckle legs spreading pain pain painpainpain-_

“H-Hosea?” Arthur asked, refusing to look at the man, keeping his eyes trained on Zieglar’s knee. “Can you step out for a minute?”

There was a heavy pause. “...May I ask the reason?” Hosea asked delicately, and Arthur heard the floorboards creak as Hosea shifted his weight. “Sleep troubles are something I can help with.”

 _“Can you just give me some privacy?”_ Arthur snapped.

He could _feel_ the weight and burn of Hosea’s stare. Slowly, without a word, Hosea’s footfalls shifted backwards - there was a soft thud that may have been him patting the doorway - before the creaking boards of their house tracked his path down the hall and down the stairs.

Zieglar waited patiently, his hands folded and clasped between his knees, which Arthur was immensely thankful for. After a long pause, he dragged in an uneasy breath and rasped, “...I’ve been having nightmares.”

Zieglar hummed. “And these nightmares, has anything prompted them?”

“Naw, they just… came out of nowhere,” Arthur huffed. He finally looked up at Zieglar’s face. “Can’t you just… prescribe me somethin’ to help me sleep, Doc?”

Zieglar’s mouth twisted as he sat back, crossing his legs and crossing his arms. “All sleep aids, syrup and pills, suppress respiration. I refuse to prescribe any to you.” Arthur clenched his jaw. “I suggest you set up a standard routine if you haven’t already. Have one set sleep time, create a ritual leading up to sleep, do not consume caffeine, have your father bring you tea throughout the day - I personally favor chamomile - and let yourself wake up naturally. If you feel drowsy during the day, put all other things aside to try and nap.”

Arthur pushed his hands together, idly rolling his fingers over and through each other. “We’ve been doin’ most of that,” he murmured. “And what if the nightmares don’t stop?”

Zieglar grimaced and uncrossed his arms, leaning forward again with a tired sigh. “There’s always hypnosis?”

Arthur snorted. “Get the hell out of here.”

Zieglar’s mouth sank into his not-quite-smile. “People have achieved success with it before.”

“I ain’t in the mood to try mysticism,” Arthur mumbled.

“I’d argue it’s not mysticism, but science. There are numerous written accounts of it helping with everything from nightmares to shell shock,” Zieglar said with a shrug.

Arthur darted his head away to cough raggedly into his elbow, hacking and grimacing at the bloom of agony raking claws up his lungs and up his throat to come out in the form of blood into his already-bloodstained sleeve. Doctor Zieglar calmly set his pulverisateur on the bed, and Arthur miserably picked it up, emptying his lungs as best he could before wrapping his mouth around the mouthpiece and dragging in a tortured breath, squeezing the device so that it sprayed its soothing mist into the back of his throat. He held his breath, then slowly let it out with an uneasy rattle, his head slumping forward with a couple weak coughs.

He was so exhausted.

“...I’ll keep it in mind,” he said quietly.

Zieglar gave him a soft, apologetic sigh. “As always, I wish I could do more, but… treating TB really is an army of all the little things. There is no one miracle. Not yet, anyway.” 

"Well, if they find one soon, I sure hope they send it my way," Arthur mumbled.

Zieglar planted his hands on his knees and heaved himself upright with a grunt, turning to gather up all of his supplies back into his doctor’s bag. With a brief, sidelong glance, he casually said, “You know, your father truly is your best ally when it comes to your recovery, far more than I. If I am to prescribe anything, I prescribe talking to someone about your nightmares.”

The thought of saying out loud what they contained - let alone saying it to _Hosea_ \- made bile slither up to the back of his tongue. Arthur stared resolutely at the wall. “Sure.”

“Do be kind to yourself, Mr. Jones,” Doctor Zieglar said softly. With that, he picked up his bag and made his way out of the room, his footfalls slowly descending the stairs.

Arthur listened to the soft murmurs of Zieglar and Hosea exchanging a few words downstairs, then listened to the front door opening and closing. Dead silence settled through the house for a long minute, interrupted only by the cheerful sounds of horses and distant dogs and playing children filtering in from outside. The comfortably cool November air breezed through the windows and whistled through the boards, making Arthur bundle his shawl tighter around his shoulders as he struggled to breathe, feeling like the air was stifling, hot and thick. 

Eventually, soft footfalls and the creak of old boards alerted him to Hosea returning to the second floor. He carried a glass of milk in his hands as he slowly eased into Arthur’s doorway, knocking twice on the frame. “Can I come in?”

Arthur looked him up and down, trying to scrutinize his expression. It was hard to read him. “Sure,” he rasped.

Hosea walked up to the side of Arthur’s bed and held out the glass. Arthur took it with a small nod of thanks and then sipped at it, letting the cool, thick liquid ease his tortured throat. He kept his eyes trained downwards as Hosea settled on the foot of his bed, crossing his legs.

Things were quiet for a few seconds. Then, the question he knew Hosea was going to ask cut through the air. “Why aren’t you getting enough sleep?”

Arthur stayed quiet as he continued to sip at his milk, thinking through his words. Hosea let him.

After a while, when he reached halfway down the glass, he managed, “Bad dreams. I don’t know. It ain’t nothing to worry about, I just gotta... work harder.”

Hosea made a low noise. “Well, I ain’t no stranger to those,” he murmured. “Do you want to talk abou-?”

“No.”

Hosea blinked. He sighed and straightened up. “Well, if you ever do, I’m here if you need me,” he said gently, then let the issue sit. He opted to squeeze his ankle instead. “I was hoping we could talk about things, now that you’re on bedrest again.”

Arthur glared at him over the rim of his glass. “You need help around the house. Or do less. You ain’t goin’ back to faintin’ again.”

Hosea held up his hands in surrender. “I _know,_ I know. Quite frankly, now that I’ve known the taste of ‘me time,’ I’m an addict, and I ain’t too keen on giving it up.” Arthur made an approving noise around another mouthful of milk. “So, I was thinkin’... my friend Hank - do you know about Hank? Have I ever told you about Hank?”

Arthur snorted softly. “Your theatre buddy, right? The one with the daughter that just got married?”

Hosea smiled and nodded, pulling a leg up onto the bed to rest his elbow on. “Yeah. The sweetheart. Ever since she moved out he’s been the most depressed son of a bitch you’ve ever seen, so I was thinking I might start bringing him over, have some-” he chuckled slightly to himself _“-chore parties.”_

A sudden burst of adrenaline exploded out of the nape of Arthur’s neck and slithered through his veins at the thought of a man he didn’t know coming into the house. It must have shown on his face, because Hosea’s casual smile wilted.

“...I can think of something else,” Hosea said gingerly. “I understand if you want it to just be us.”

The adrenaline churned in another direction, thrusting up spikes of panic about the thought of Hosea getting hurt or sick - it was one thing that Arthur was not only failing to provide Hosea help around the house himself, but to deny the man help based off of a senseless _feeling_ with no rhyme or reason that he shouldn’t be feeling and didn’t understand why he was feeling in the first place...?

Hosea thought the world of Hank. He trusted Hosea’s judgement with his life.

What the _hell_ was wrong with him?

Ignoring the screaming static zinging down his spine, Arthur used the rage bleeding out of his chest to power the shake of his head and his voice as he said, “No, no, you should do it. That sounds like a great idea. I’d love to meet him.”

Hosea saw right through him. Arthur knew it. He just also knew that the man couldn’t see a cause that Arthur didn’t know himself.

“...He’s a really great fella,” Hosea eventually hedged. “Maybe I’ll have him come over on Monday. We can play cards and you two can get to know each other. It’ll be nice!”

Arthur smiled and firmly nodded. 

A painfully awkward silence hung between them.

Hosea finally sighed and looked away from where he was squinting at Arthur, pushing himself off of the mattress and onto his feet. “I’m going to go start cooking all of our food for Shabbat. You should try and get some rest,” he said tiredly, patting Arthur’s shin. “You about finished with your milk? I can take it down with me.”

Arthur drained the last of the liquid, licking at his milk mustache and wiping the rest onto his sleeve before handing Hosea the glass. “I appreciate it,” he rasped.

Hosea nodded back, then let out another sigh and made his way back to the doorway. He slowed the closer he got to it, eventually coming to a halt in the barrier, his back towards Arthur as he stared out into the hallway. “And Arthur...” he said lowly, speaking in the clear, concise tone that Arthur hadn’t heard since he was in his early rebellious twenties, “I can only hope… that _whatever_ is bothering you… you let someone help you with it. Me, Albert, Zieglar, I don’t care, but _take it from someone_ who _knows,_ son…” Hosea pointedly looked over his shoulder, his expression as serious as the grave. “Burying shit just lets it grow. ...Don’t make me bury _you.”_

Arthur sank his gaze down to the blankets in his lap and listened to Hosea’s footfalls descend down the stairs as the rage in his chest bubbled through every limb like a boiling-over pot, ticking a muscle in his jaw as his nose scrunched up in a sneer.

Hosea didn’t know what he was talking about. 

He knew how much shit that man went through - and Arthur’d gone through almost the same. The loss of a child, losing loved ones to sickness or bullets, being shot or tortured, that was _real._ Those were the kinds of things that destroyed men. But this? This was _different._ This was _pathetic._ There was no reason for Arthur to be suffering as much as he was because of simple bad dreams reminding him of something that _was entirely his f-_

He didn’t need help.

There was nothing to _talk about._

Because _nothing_ **_happened._ **

Arthur curled his hand into a tight fist, closed his eyes, and took a long, deep breath, forcing the rage to bleed out and drain away even as his heart kept pounding in his chest. Dragging a hand down his face, he picked up his pulverisateur and set it back on the night-stand with a shaky hand - the damn thing felt twice as heavy as it used to - and settled himself down under the covers and onto his pillow, yanking his shawl tighter around his front as he closed his eyes, his jaw clenched as tight as it was whenever he stared down the barrel of a gun.

But sleep never came.

\--

Spending Shabbat with Hosea was torture.

The rituals were nice - the candle-lighting, the blessings, and songs had become a soothing routine for them both - mostly because they were scripted. It was a pattern that Arthur could mindlessly follow, and simply existing with Hosea while following a script wasn’t too bad.

It was the rest of the time - the ‘bonding time’ - that was painful beyond words.

“Domino,” Hosea announced casually, setting down his last domino to win the round, right before he flicked his eyes up to Arthur’s face and said with all the grace of a brick wall, “You’re off your game. Something on your _mind?”_

Arthur rolled his bottom lip between his teeth and furiously furrowed his brow, refusing to look at him. “Don’t worry about it.”

Hosea worried about it.

Every game they played, every reading session they shared, Arthur could feel the man’s eyes studying him with a sharp, burning gaze that felt like it was trying to chisel into his skull to see exactly what was lurking there. It made a defensive fire lick up the side of his ribs and threaten to burst out of his mouth, but every time he turned his head to glare at Hosea, Hosea was never looking.

“If this is about your relapse, it’s not your fault,” Hosea murmured at one point.

Arthur narrowed his eyes at his page. “I know.”

A while later, as Hosea brought him a cup of steaming chamomile tea, he held it back from Arthur’s outstretched hands to say, “You know… I still get nightmares.”

Arthur simply frowned up at him. “I’ve known that for a while.” The sound of sudden, violent movement in Hosea’s bedroom preceding a sharp gasp had made him furrow his brow at his ceiling on many a restless night. For half of them, he pretended to sleep as he heard Hosea’s soft footfalls pause in his doorway, hover a short while, then return to his own bed.

Hosea carefully lifted a brow, his expression strained and empathetic. “So I hope you know they’re not anything to be ashamed of.”

Arthur stared resolutely at the cup. “I know.” A beat. “Thanks for the tea,” he said pointedly, ending the conversation. Hosea handed the cup to him with a heavy sigh.

Late that night, as Hosea was helping him up the stairs from his last outhouse run before sleep, Arthur leaning heavily on his shoulder as he shivered and sweated in equal measure, Hosea grunted with the effort of supporting Arthur up onto the final step before saying, “If you need me for anyth-”

“Sure,” Arthur gruffed, gritting his teeth to shrug out of his hold and stagger to his bed on his own.

Halfway through the night, Arthur woke up with a ragged scream, bolting upright and scrambling to turn his back against the wall to face the windows and the door. Hosea came stumbling in a few seconds later as Arthur launched into a ragged coughing fit, immediately moving in to grab Arthur and help support him, but a violent lightning flash of panic at his touch made him slap Hosea’s hands away. Hosea silently backed away and left, leaving Arthur to collapse on the mattress and writhe at the combined pain in his lungs and the phantom pain between his legs, tears streaming down his cheeks. 

When Hosea finally came back, the adrenaline flooding through Arthur’s system doubled. He felt raw and scared and exposed and a part of him was screaming at him that Hosea could _see it,_ that Hosea could _see_ what happened, that the man would be able to see the _filth_ in him, the _weakness,_ exactly how much Arthur _failed him,_ if he kept looking at him for _one more goddamn second._

“Out,” Arthur breathlessly gasped as Hosea came up to his bedside with a cup of herbal tea.

Hosea’s voice was as gentle as it always was whenever Arthur had a middle-of-the-night coughing fit. “Arth-”

“Get out.”

“You don’t have to tell me what’s w-”

_“Out.”_

“Arthur, can I touch y-?”

 _“Get OUT!”_ Arthur snapped, his voice breaking and splintering and sending him into another coughing fit. 

He heard the dull _clunk_ of the tea cup being set on his night stand before Hosea’s soft footfalls slowly drifted away to his doorway. Hosea’s voice came through the haze, sounding like it was a mile away - “I’ll be right across the hall” - and then he was gone.

The following day, Hosea gave him a wide berth. Arthur, despite the guilty pang in his stomach, could only be grateful.

It was for the best, he kept telling himself.

Hosea _couldn’t know._

_No one could know._

_He_ didn’t want to know.

He didn’t want _it_ to _exist._

 _He didn’t want it to be_ real.

And so he sat in silence. He sketched. He read. He dozed. 

Hosea spent his time downstairs or on the porch, always with a book in hand, never seeming to turn the page.

Hosea only came into his space to bring him his meals, his milk, or to come support him to the outhouse and back. Their shared meals and trips were spent in uneasy silence, with only the barest words exchanged between them.

Hosea always squeezed his shoulder or ran a hand through his hair before he left.

And it always made Arthur want to bury himself in the man's chest and rip his skin off.

When night fell once more and the time Arthur dreaded most came along - sleep - Hosea hesitated in his doorway after bringing him his last cup of tea.

"Do you not want Albert to come by tomorrow?" Hosea asked, quiet and gentle, like he was speaking to a spooked horse.

Arthur stiffened and met the man's eyes for the first time that day. "Naw, I…" He cleared his throat. "I'm really looking forward to it."

Hosea nodded slightly and hummed. "...All right."

There was a long, heavy pause.

Arthur's head slowly drifted downwards. "Good night, 'Sea," he rasped, voice heavy with the weight of all his unspoken words that day. Chief amongst them being _I'm sorry._

Hosea let out a soft sigh. "Sweet dreams, son. I'll be right across the hall."

Arthur summoned the faintest smile for him, and a glance upward showed Hosea returning the gesture.

After he drained the last of the tea, Arthur warily settled down onto his pillow, closed his eyes, willed his mind carefully blank, and drifted into sleep.

He jerked awake a few hours later with a broken shout and once again pushed himself upright to spin his back away from the windows and the door, panting with a strained rattle in his chest as he felt the thick suffocating air of Lemoyne morph into the clean cool air of Colorado. His hackles immediately raised to snap at a surely imminent Hosea to _go away, he wanted to be alone, leave._

Hosea never came.

The man’s light was still on across the hall. It stayed on all the way until Arthur laid his head on his pillow and closed his eyes once more.

\--

Arthur finally understood why John always seemed to get so relaxed when he sat near him while he sketched.

His own journal page remained a pale beige void staring blankly up at him while Albert sketched across from him, sitting cross-legged at the foot of his bed, making quiet, tentative whispers with his pencil as he sketched in his notebook, occasionally glancing up at Arthur with his tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth, his brow furrowed in concentration. Despite Arthur’s frustration at his inability to put his pencil on the paper and _move it,_ the sound of Albert sketching was… meditative. His simmering frustration could never bubble up too far, and the more time he spent around Albert, the more the shadows in his mind seemed to fade, and the dark corners seemed a little less scary.

“There!” Albert chirped, beaming down at his page with a smile, before his expression almost instantly plummeted into a despaired frown, his jaw hanging open slightly. “Oh…”

Arthur closed his journal and straightened up slightly, a small smile fading onto his face. “What? Lemme see it! I’m sure it’s fine!”

“Well…” Albert hedged, clutching his notebook tightly and rapidly glancing between it and Arthur. “Well- It looks like a _child’s_ drawing! I can’t possibly show this to someone who puts _reality_ onto paper like you-”

“Al, _c’mon…”_ Arthur drawled, gently moving his hand in a beckoning gesture. “I’m sure I’ll love it.”

Albert blushed. “B-But-”

“Please?”

Albert pouted at him, then shrilly sighed, closing his eyes and looking away before turning his notebook towards Arthur.

What sat on the page was a very endearing, earnest sketch of Arthur, made out of clumsy circles and shaggy scribbles.

A warm, bubbly chuckle rose out of Arthur’s chest before he could stop it. _“Aw.”_

“Stop it.”

“I love it!”

“I don’t need your pity.”

“It ain’t pity, it’s good!”

“My dear friend, how on Earth is this _good?”_

Arthur fondly shook his head and pointed at the sketch, drawing Albert’s eyes to his work. “I mean lookie here - you got my hair real good! They’re the same amount of messy! You got my general shape, you even added a little scruff-”

Albert sighed and sagged, pulling his notebook back into his lap. “It’s nowhere near as good as yours.”

Arthur leaned forward and poked Albert in the shoulder. “Why the hell compare yourself to me? I’m me and you’re you. You’ll get better with time! Hell, one day your sketches will be as good as your pictures!”

“Not very impressive, then?” Albert muttered, low and meek.

Arthur scoffed, reaching out a hand to gently curl over the man’s knee. “You should be kinder to yourself, Al. You’re the most talented humble man I’ve ever met.”

Albert puffed up. “Well come on then, let’s see yours and challenge that claim!”

“Well, fine, here ya go.” Arthur sat up and turned his barren pages up and around for Albert to see.

Albert blinked, his expression rapidly softening from its glinting challenge, and his gaze flicked up to meet Arthur’s for the first time, a crease in his brow. “You didn’t draw anything?”

Arthur shrugged and returned his own journal to his lap, sighing out of his nose. “Haven’t… drawn or written anything in a while, now,” he said, voice soft and quiet compared to the rasp of each inhale. “It’s like… I’m… stuck.”

“Stuck?” Albert repeated, tilting his head. “How so? Do you lack muses? I’m happy for you to draw _me_ if you’d like!”

“That’s what I’ve been tryin’ to do for the past however many minutes,” Arthur mumbled. “It’s like the path from my brain to my hand is… blocked off or something.” He yawned and rubbed at his eye.

Albert thoughtfully hummed, stroking his beard and turning his head to gaze out the windows. “When we paint, we usually paint landscapes, but… well. Maybe we can draw nature?”

“Tried. Haven’t been able to so far,” Arthur mumbled.

“Hmm…” Albert hummed again, rubbing at his sideburns. Finally, he straightened and looked at Arthur again, a smile on his face. “Have you tried drawing the block?”

Arthur blinked. “Drawing the what now?”

“Drawing the block!” Albert chirped, reaching out to excitedly jiggle Arthur’s knee. “Don’t think about what you’re drawing, just… let it all out! Clear out the gunk like a clogged drain!”

Arthur wheezed a weak chuckle. “How do you even know that’ll work? I thought you never did drawn art before?”

“I haven’t,” Albert said with a small chuckle and a shrug. “I’m just throwing things out there.”

“Well… I can give it a try,” Arthur hedged, offering Albert a smile. “Maybe you can try your hand at drawin’ an animal or some scenery? Drawin’ _people_ is hard, even for me. It took me years to get folk lookin’ decent.”

Albert excitedly pulled his notebook into his lap again and picked up his pencil. “Well, I’m ready for round two whenever you are!”

Arthur nodded once and picked up his pencil, pushing the lead to the paper a moment before Albert started sketching, slowly pushing his pencil around in aimless scribbles. He continued, simply letting his hand move, and his hand transitioned from lazy swirls to jerky, jagged scratches, skittering down the paper. His brow furrowed as he moved the pencil back up, pushing down harder, deepening the scratches into darker and darker shadows, feeling a need to make the marks darker and darker until they were almost black. A sudden impulse made his hand start slicing out sharp, geometrical shapes in the middle of the page, horizontal, vertical, then horizontal again, filling in the spaces with harsh shading before continuing to surround its border with his frantic sharp shadows, skipping back and forth between them and sharpening the details in the middle of the page, until suddenly his hand snapped to the very center, snapping down in shaking lines a figure that his eyes couldn’t even focus on, forming it into being with harsh hisses of his pencil, ending with two dark circles that he swirled and swirled and ground his pencil down into, turning them into blacker and blacker voids until he was finally snapped out of his trance by the harsh shriek of his pencil tearing through the paper.

He blinked. Then blinked again, slowly setting his pencil aside with a shaking hand, gulping in pained breaths as he shivered, a bead of sweat rolling down his neck.

“Are you… okay… Arthur…?” Albert asked hesitantly, his own scene long forgotten.

Arthur couldn’t stop staring at what he’d drawn.

“Arthur?” Albert asked again, his voice smaller.

Arthur swallowed, thickly. “I…”

A long minute of silence stretched between them before Albert said, “Do you… want to show me what you drew…?”

After staring blankly at it for a few more seconds, Arthur slowly nodded, then carefully, hesitantly, turned his journal towards Albert.

What sat on the page was a violently dark border of sharp scribbles, which all coalesced to surround the ragged form of a shack - _the_ shack - in the middle of the page, looming large and imposing as if leering down at the viewer, with its cluttered porch and uneven steps and tin roof, and in the doorway… stood a horrific humanoid creature, naked and pale and gaunt with long legs and arms that ended in sharp claws, its hand hanging below its knee while its other steadied itself on the doorframe where it half-crouched, ready to lunge, looking directly forward with a small smiling mouth of rotted-off lips and jagged teeth. Two dark voids sat as its eyes.

“Oh,” said Albert quietly, his voice small. “Uh… Uh… It’s… nice!”

Arthur pulled his journal back towards himself and turned his head down to stare miserably at it once more. “It ain’t,” he rasped.

Albert hummed, softly. “Well… it certainly looks like a _cathartic_ piece, if nothing else. I once saw an art gallery in Boston that was nothing but paintings of bloodied people screaming and crying. I met the artist, actually - the bubbliest fellow I’ve ever met, practically bouncing off the walls, carried a song in his heart!” He made a grand hand gesture, like a bird flying from his chest. “I asked him how a fellow like him could be so positive but make such horrible things, and he told me that his paintings were why he was so positive!” Albert blinked, then, his expression wrinkling in puzzlement. “Never quite understood it myself. The closest thing I could do to that would be to… take pictures of sad things, but then I’d have to look at them actually existing, and that just doesn’t sound cathartic to me at all.”

Arthur continued to stare into those two voids.

“Oh good heavens, look at me prattle! I’m so sorry,” Albert blurted, flitting a hand over to pat Arthur’s knee, sending grounding sparks through him like strikes to a still pool of water. “Do you… want to tell me about it? What is that… creature?”

Arthur’s breathing shifted as he finally furrowed his brow, glancing up at Albert as he was drawn out of the haze. “I, uh…” he cleared his throat and then slowly rubbed at his jaw. “I think… it’s… a wendigo.”

“A _wendigo?”_

Arthur nodded absently, staring at its thin, near-skeletal frame. “Charles… told me about them once,” he murmured, running his thumbs along the edges of the pages, never venturing too close. “They’re a legend shared by the Algonquin peoples, tribes of native folk around the Great Lakes and the St. Lawrence river. He said that… that most folk believe that the wendigo is the spirit of winter, and… a symbol of the horrors of selfishness.” A muscle in his jaw ticced as the creature continued to bare its teeth at him in that sickening smile. “It has a never-ending hunger for the flesh of men. Some folk say one is created every time someone commits an unspeakable act, like resorting to cannibalism, or murdering a child, or…” his voice died out.

He felt phantom hands on his inner thighs, and he snapped his journal shut.

Albert’s expression was very somber and concerned when Arthur finally looked back up at him. After wringing his hands, Albert ventured, “It seems like… perhaps… if I’m not being too forward… maybe your art block is because of…” He gently gestured. “Some kind of unspeakable act that happened.”

Arthur grunted and looked out the window. After taking in a deep breath, he slowly let it out through his mouth with a faint rattle from his lungs. “...Maybe.”

“Do you… want… to talk about it…?” Albert prompted gently, reaching his slightly chubby hand forward again to squeeze Arthur’s knee with warm, firm pressure, anchoring him to that bedroom in Denver. Not Lemoyne.

Arthur watched a pair of crows roll and play in the snow. “...No.”

Albert softly hummed. “That’s just fine,” he said warmly. “Maybe you can tell your art!” Arthur swallowed and glanced up at Albert with a thankful smile. Albert smiled back, then softly added, “Maybe we can do something else besides art today?”

Arthur tilted his head in thought as Albert retracted his hand, then warily proposed, “...We got dominos.”

“Oh,” Albert chuffed, wringing his hands again with an awkward smile, “I’m afraid I don’t know how to play.”

Arthur’s brow shot towards his hair. “You don’t know how to play dominos?! Well hell, friend, lemme teach ya how!”

The remaining hours of Albert’s visit consisted of a riveting game of fives - or, series of games - where Arthur got to teach Albert all the ins and outs of dominos for the first half, then graduated to splitting the games in a mix of winning and letting Albert win, preening only slightly at his own skills and basking in the proud hoots and guffaws that Albert let out when he won. By the time Hosea came home to mark the end of Albert’s visit, a seed of dread had been growing more and more steadily in Arthur’s stomach, and it spiked through the ceiling when Albert embraced Arthur and said “I’ll be back next week - I’m headed on an excursion into the mountains to try my hand at finding a mated pair of eagles!”

Arthur made a strained noise as he embraced the man in return. “Just- don’t fall to your death this time, all right?”

Albert chuckled and ducked his head, reluctantly backing away with a mock-salute. “I shall do everything in my power to make it to our next game, dear friend. I’ve grown used to the high of being a Domino King!”

“Get out of here, Your Majesty,” Arthur drawled, shooing him away with a warm chuckle.

After a last couple of waves, Albert made his way down the stairs, Arthur heard him exchange a few words with Hosea, and then the front door opened and shut, leaving the house solely with the sound of Hosea clanging around cooking supper. 

After a long few minutes of staring blankly at the far wall, Arthur slowly closed his eyes and let out a weary breath. Drifting his eyelids open, he turned his head towards his journal and pulled it back into his lap, hesitating for a long moment before opening it to the haunting image his mind for some reason deigned had to exist before he could draw or write. He frowned down at the creature lurking in that doorway, then picked up his pencil and went to the next blank page. 

_I_

His pencil hovered next to the word as a wave of exhaustion overcame his limbs. The thoughts in his head swirled groggily and uneasily like molasses, but it was an improvement over the yawning void or solid block that had been the inside of his mind before. He squinted down at the page, made a low grunt, then forced himself to write.

 _am so damn_ _angry_ _._ _~~Most days I can’t underst~~ _ _Things had been good. Really good. For the first time in a long while, I’d been feeling hopeful. My TB was, or seemed to be, on the mend, and I even got to thinking all romantic again. Then, the same night I feel like “This is it, I can do this, I’m almost better,” I have this damned nightmare. And ever since then, I’ve known no peace, every time I lay my head on the pillow and close my eyes._

 _My health has fallen for the worse, and I’m back to coughing up blood._ ~~_Hosea’s worryi_~~ _I’m trying my best to get over it, to push through it, to move on, but it just keeps getting worse, and with every sleepless night I feel my strength slipping._

_I can’t even voice what “it” is. I don’t want to. The closest I’ve ever come to thinking about what happened is this damned drawing. Maybe the thing I hate most about it is that it actually helped._

_Charles telling me about wendigos has stayed with me. Hearing him describe those twisted spirits, manifestations of man’s evil… seems fitting for_ **_that man_ ** _._

He wrote and rewrote the words, violently underlining them again and again and again.

 _I_ ~~_cannot believe_~~ _am ashamed of my own stupidity. My own weakness. Of all the things I've pushed through in my life, why can't I push through this? I pushed through it before, and it just came back! I've pushed through far worse things than a stupid slip up where no one even died. I pushed through watching lawmen kill my Pa. I pushed through being tortured by the man who butchered Annabelle. I pushed through the murder of_ _my own son_ _, and I pushed through watching Dutch get sh_

Something snapped deep inside his chest as blood-soaked cobblestones flashed behind his eyes and he let out a strangled cry as the pencil snapped in half in his hand, throwing the journal to slam into the wall beside the doorway right as Hosea came around the corner with their food tray in his hands, making him startle. Arthur watched in horror as the very next second his journal fell to the floor and popped open, right as Hosea stepped through the doorway and looked down at it.

 _“Don’t-!”_ he barked, throwing out a hand.

Hosea immediately looked away and arced an eyebrow at him. “Is now a bad time?” he deadpanned.

Arthur simply sat there and trembled, raising a hand up to cover his watery eyes as he turned his head to cough weakly into his shoulder. He heard the floorboards groan from Hosea shifting his weight, and he peeked out just in time to catch Hosea deftly flip his journal closed with a socked foot - Arthur caught sight of sketches from back at Clemen’s Point and heaved a sigh of relief - before making his way over to set the tray down in the middle of the bed. Arthur scrubbed away the last of the spilled tears and sniffled, clearing his throat. When he next looked at Hosea’s face, the man’s expression had softened considerably.

“Want me to go get that for you?” Hosea prompted, gesturing his head at the journal. Arthur nodded slightly and then ducked his gaze. He finally got a proper view of what Hosea cooked as Hosea moved away, and blinked rapidly, furrowing his brow and squinting down at the puzzling sight. 

Hosea was back in only a few seconds, setting his journal on the night-stand before perching himself on the foot of the bed. He snorted at whatever look was on Arthur’s face. “Ah, I see you are pondering tonight’s cuisine.”

Arthur raised his squinting eyes to squint at Hosea. 

“Spaghetti,” Hosea explained simply, gesturing down at the stringy pasta covered in red sauce and large balls of meat on their plates. “A lovely theatric comrade of mine, Priscilla, happens to be Italian, and gave me a recipe for her grandmama’s spaghetti, and, _well-”_ Hosea made a show of shrugging, lilting his voice playfully “-I thought, dear little Jack only told me about spaghetti roughly sixty-three times, maybe I could learn how to make it for when next I see the boy, give him a surprise and spoil him enough to where he’ll tell tales of his great _Papa Hosea’s_ spaghetti, a-ho!”

A gentle chuckle slipped out from Arthur’s lips as they pulled up in an involuntary smile. He fondly shook his head as he thought about little Jack calling the dish _delicious worms,_ as well as John’s look of utter bewilderment. He picked up his fork and warily moved it around his plate, trying to figure out how to eat it.

“And I also figured you’d make a fine test subject to try out my first attempt on,” Hosea continued, his tone rapidly easing into something gentle and fond. “You’ve been… having a rough time lately. Figured I’d shake things up.”

Arthur’s smile grew softer. He looked up to meet Hosea’s eye and nodded his thanks before dropping his gaze again, settling for scooping the spaghetti onto his fork and tugging it up to his mouth, chasing after it when it slid off to slop back onto the plate. He wrinkled his nose slightly and threw Hosea a playful glare when the man laughed at him from across the bed. He wanted to shoot back a _Well you try it then!_ but words still felt like a straw that would break the brittle back holding him together.

Sure enough, he saw Hosea’s hand pick up his own fork and scoop up the pasta as Arthur struggled to slurp up the flailing noodles. After two precarious attempts, Hosea started twirling his fork to wind the noodles around it like a spool of wire, and Arthur slurped up the last of his noodles, splattering sauce all over his chin. He made a groan of complaint as he picked up the handkerchief and watched Hosea pop his own forkful into his mouth to disguise yet another laugh. Arthur wiped off the sauce and pettily stabbed a meatball, popping it into his mouth instead. Hosea scritched Arthur’s knee as Arthur twirled a band of noodles around his fork, and Arthur was reminded all at once how glad he was that sharing meals was such a steadfast ritual.

“When you get back on your feet again, I should teach you how to cook this so you can spoil that boy as well,” Hosea idly mused as he swirled another forkful up to his mouth. “You know what? I should teach you how to cook in general. You still haven’t cooked on a proper range yet, have you?” Arthur shook his head and grunted around his spaghetti. Hosea huffed sharply. “A failure of me as your mentor, truly.”

Arthur gave him a deadpan look, paused mid-spool.

Hosea arced an eyebrow at him. "Every respectable man deserves to know how to cook for himself and how to do his own laundry. Speaking of, I should run you through that too when you recover," he finished, gesticulating wildly with his spaghetti-laden fork before popping it into his mouth.

Arthur shoved his spaghetti into his mouth and grunted, furrowing his brow low.

"Either you're protesting against doing domestic work, and I know you're not since I know you better than that, or you're doubting your own recovery again, and we've been through this before," Hosea drawled, twirling up another forkful of spaghetti.

Arthur was suddenly not hungry in the slightest. A wave of frustration and exhaustion washed over him like a riptide, dragging him away from the fleeting sense of comfort and peace he'd managed to find in Hosea's company. He put down his fork and started running his hands over and through each other before his body deemed it fit to give his plate the same treatment it gave his journal.

The weight of Hosea's stare across from him burned, and he didn't need to look up to see the downward sag of his mouth or the gentle upward pinch of his brow.

"I know… that things are scary," Hosea mused, voice as careful as a man walking on thin ice. "Feeling like your own body is out to get you is a feeling I know well. And I _know,_ I know _I'm one to talk_ about keeping a stiff upper lip about getting better when I've… been shooting everyone down about my own health improving for years." At that, Arthur finally looked up at Hosea's face, slowing the motions of his hands as he frowned at the man. Hosea's frequent comments about his near-approaching death had given both him and Dutch multiple conniptions those past few years. Hosea folded his hands in his lap and sagged his shoulders. "I was wrong to do that," Hosea said quietly. "I thought I was preparing you all when really I was just… protecting _myself._ Because you wanna know something?"

Arthur blinked at him and tilted his head.

Hosea took a deep breath and sat up straight. His voice was low and flat when he said, "A doctor, listened to my lungs and… gave me a year to live…"

Arthur's blood turned to ice.

 _"...three years_ ago," Hosea finished. “Now, for twelve years, I have been _obsessed_ with _death.”_ Arthur slowly wet his lips and swallowed, lowering his gaze to focus on the movements of his hands again so he wouldn’t have to see the raw grief in Hosea’s eyes. “‘Cause dying? That shit’s easy. Ain’t nothin’ hard in the dying. But _living?”_ Hosea huffed, and when he next spoke, his voice trembled. “Now that… _That’s_ hard. But… Arthur…” Hosea let out a strained sigh and slowly opened his hands, extending them towards Arthur, then stopping. An open invitation. A question, not a demand. Arthur answered by slowly stilling his hands, then moving them into Hosea’s, whose hands folded around them and squeezed them tightly, and the firm pressure formed a bridge that allowed Arthur to raise his gaze again. “I don’t know when I’ll die. Maybe it’s soon, maybe it’s years and years down the line. The same goes for you. One setback - hell, a dozen, a hundred - doesn’t spell the end. Sometimes we fall down, but…” Hosea paused, the muscles in his jaw drawn tight as his eyes glistened in the lamplight. His breath hitched. “...we get _right back on that horse,”_ he choked out, and Arthur’s eyes stung, reliving flashes of memory of Dutch’s calloused hands pulling him up out of the dirt and wiping away his tears, ushering him back towards Empress and then rubbing his shoulder and patting his chest when he got back on the mare, his mouth forming the words _No matter what, you always get right back on that horse, son._

Hosea took a deep breath and shook his head. “I don’t know what exactly is troubling you, dear boy, but - _don’t give up._ Okay? I know it’s taken me way too damn long to focus more on living than on dying, but- _don’t_ walk down the same path I did. _Please.”_

Arthur trembled for a long moment. He opened his mouth.

His vision flickered to that looming shack.

He closed it.

His trembling turned to shivering and pain bloomed in his lungs - he quickly turned away as he started coughing into his sleeve, and coughing, and coughing, and _coughing,_ so hard and for so long that black crawled in on the edges of his vision as the middle filled with scarlet splatter painting the already-stained expanse of his sleeve. He felt Hosea’s hands on him, could hear Hosea’s voice, and he struggled to pull out of it, to cling to consciousness, but with a low roar filling his ears like he’d fallen underwater, he slipped into the dark.

\--

When his vision finally swam back in, he saw pale sunlight. 

He felt like he'd been ran over and then dragged behind a train for thirty miles. Every part of him was in pain. His legs, his stomach, his eyes, his throat, his lungs… and his head. A deep, throbbing pain that made bile slither up to the back of his tongue, and he coughed against the sensation, moisture leaking from the corners of his eyes as his heart rate spiked.

"Here, son," came Hosea's voice, and then Hosea's arms were helping him sit up a little more, his hands reaching to pull his hair out of his face and wipe a cool rag over his forehead and eyes before flipping to wipe at his mouth. Arthur sagged in his hold.

“Where… m’ I…” he rasped.

Hosea tensed against Arthur’s back. “You’re in your room. In Denver. Remember?”

It _hurt._

“God, your fever,” Hosea hissed after putting his hand on Arthur’s forehead. Arthur continued to shiver against the cold as beads of sweat ran down his temple. “I’m going to heat you up a bath and- and make you something to eat, get some cool milk in you, all right?”

_It hurt._

“I know it hurts,” Hosea rambled, and God, was he speaking out loud? “Just- hang on, I need- I need to- we need to take care of you, all right? Just hang on, I’ll be- I’ll be right back-” and with that, Hosea carefully slid out from behind him and lowered him down to the small mountain of pillows at the head of his bed. Arthur finally got a bleary look at him, and he was wearing the same clothes from yesterday, save only for his missing vest, showing his suspenders instead - his gray hair was astray, his collar was rumpled, and his sleeves were messily rolled up past his elbows, like he’d been up all night.

Guilt swooped heavy in Arthur’s stomach as he watched Hosea leave, and he slumped his head back into the pillows, staring morosely up at the ceiling as wariness and exhaustion kept trying to tug his eyes closed.

He drifted in and out of awareness, and before he knew it, Hosea was back in the room setting down a tray of slightly runny scrambled eggs with a glass of partly-spilled milk. Hosea flitted back to his shoulder to help him sit up, removing the cold compress from his forehead to set aside before rearranging the pillows to prop him upright, then barely perched himself on the foot of the bed where he started shoveling the eggs into his mouth.

Arthur sat and stared blankly at the eggs, struggling to settle into the moment, time bending and shifting uneasily around him like a veil in water. “...Work?” he grunted, squinting at Hosea.

Hosea glanced at him. “Work?”

Arthur gestured at him, struggling to keep his head from lolling forward. “Y’miss… work?”

Hosea blinked at him, then gently shrugged and shook his head, scooping up more eggs. “Don’t worry about it, I’ve got an understudy.”

Arthur made a low, uneasy noise. “Pay…” he rasped.

Hosea paused in his eating and swallowed, looking Arthur in the eye. “You’re more important than money.”

After a long moment of heavy silence, Arthur sank his gaze down to the eggs. He took no further action. In a few short seconds, Hosea finished his plate and dropped his fork with a clatter.

“I’m going to go check on the water on the range,” he said quickly, standing up. _“Please_ try and eat, my boy. At least try to get the milk down?” And with that, he was out the door and flying down the stairs.

Arthur closed his eyes and took a deep breath, wincing at the crackles of pain that shot down his ribs and the harsh rattle that vibrated his chest.

He felt nothing. Beyond that, he felt… a great nothingness, sitting as a void in the hollow of his chest.

He was thankful for it, really. It was a vast improvement over the overwhelming storm of emotions he’d felt yesterday. It was also the first time he’d managed to reach unconsciousness without jerking awake to twisted echoes of dark memories.

He felt like death warmed over, but it was worth it for the simple fact that he no longer felt fit to explode at the seams. Groggily, with faintly shaking limbs, he mechanically followed Hosea’s request and picked up the glass of milk to start nursing it down.

Things proceeded the same like that for a while. He got the milk and the eggs down, and every ten minutes or so Hosea would check in, poking his head through the door before heading back downstairs. After some amount of unknowable time, Arthur was again pulled from his fugue by Hosea returning from taking the tray downstairs, holding his arm out and saying something about a bath. Arthur simply did as he was told, numbly taking Hosea’s offered arm to be pulled out of bed, then supported and guided through the hall and down the stairs.

"Can you get undressed on your own?" Hosea's voice prompted, and Arthur blinked, jarred slightly at how he was suddenly beside the tub downstairs. 

"Huh?" 

Hosea tugged on his night shirt sleeve for emphasis. "Your clothes. Can you get out of them on your own?"

_Candelabra. Fancy carpets. The door to the baths slamming into the wall. The snap of the lock. Shaking hands. His clothes tore in his haste to rip them off. Clouds of scarlet and white in the water._

Hosea squeezed and rubbed at his shoulder, pulling him back. "I need to hear an answer, son," he said gently. "Nod or shake your head if you need to."

Arthur frowned at all the open windows. Being naked sounded like the last thing he wanted to be.

A low, uneasy noise came out of his throat. "D'nt… want…" He swayed on his feet.

Hosea rubbed at his shoulder again. "Don't want what?"

Arthur closed his eyes and took a steeling breath.

It was fine. He was fine. Everything was okay. He was in Denver. Hosea was right there, and he took baths in that house and with half the gang in lakes and creeks before. 

It was fine. He was fine.

It was fine. He was fine.

"...Can do it m'self," he finished roughly, nodding his head.

Hosea relaxed beside him. "Okay." With two heavy thumps to his back, Hosea let him go and drifted off to the overflowing sink full of dirty dishes.

In the same mechanical, numb haze as before, he pulled off his night shirt and pushed down his pants, then unbuttoned and shrugged out of his union suit. He braced himself on the tub with shaking arms and weakly tried to lift his leg, then almost lost his balance - Hosea was there the very next second, bracing him upright again. Arthur grumbled and used Hosea as a prop to get in the tub before swatting the man away, earning himself a hair ruffle for his troubles as he settled into the sudsy lukewarm water and shivered, goosebumps rippling across his skin at the dueling sensations of the roaring fireplace and stove and the cool breeze wafting through the house. 

The storm of sensations - his full stomach, the pain in his lungs, the water lapping at him, heat and cold dueling over his skin, and the sound of Hosea washing dishes off in the corner of the room - was enough to keep him harshly grounded. He set about scrubbing off the thick layers of dried sweat that had settled on his skin in lazy, languid motions, occasionally splashing his face to wake himself up more. The longer he stayed in the bath, the clearer his head got, and the less… dirty he felt.

And the less dirty he felt, the more guilty he felt.

“I’m sorry, for… all this,” he rasped in Hosea’s general direction, scrubbing water through his hair.

“You’re gonna have to be more _specific,_ Arthur, ‘cause I can’t think of anything you’ve done wrong,” Hosea drawled over the clatter of dishes.

Arthur took a long breath before splashing his face with water again, spitting a little out. “For being… difficult.”

Hosea snorted. “You speak as if you haven’t been difficult for the past twenty-two years.”

Arthur frowned over at him, and Hosea looked over his shoulder. “Not like this, I haven’t,” Arthur said quietly.

Hosea heaved a sigh and put up the dish he’d finished drying, tiredly slumping against the counter to cross his arms. “You’ve been gravely sick and wounded before, Arthur. Caring for you ain’t the difficult part.” The aftermath of Colm flashed through his mind, and Arthur dropped his gaze, rubbing a ginger hand at the scar on his shoulder as a phantom pain ghosted through him. It still hurt like a son of a bitch when the weather changed. “And if you’re referring to biting my head off and giving me the cold shoulder, well, _ha,_ you should’ve seen yourself during your first decade with us. I admit, I don’t care for it, but I’d be a hypocrite if I judged you for it.”

“Well… M’sorry,” he muttered. 

Silence settled over the house.

“I just… wish…” Hosea ventured, voice drawn tight. “I just _hope…_ that you know you’re not alone in what you’re struggling against. Whatever it is.”

A wave of resentment washed over him as he remembered how devastatingly alone he _did_ feel. How he _still_ felt.

Because no one - _no one_ \- could possibly understand what happened _that night._

And Arthur very suddenly no longer wanted to be naked.

“Can you help me get out of here?” he gruffed. Hosea sighed.

In short order, Arthur was out of the tub and dressed in a fresh union suit, a pair of cloth pants aiding his decency alongside his old stained blue button-up, his blood-spotted pajamas discarded in the backed-up pile of dirty laundry. He tugged his shawl back around his shoulders as he sat down heavily at their dining table and tiredly watched as Hosea set a glass full of cool water in front of him and then slumped down in a chair beside him.

After taking a sip, Arthur side-eyed Hosea and shook his head. “I don’t… want to talk about it. But I’m journaling about it. Okay? I’ll be fine.”

Hosea rubbed at his eyes and stifled a yawn, then dragged his hand down his face before resting his head on his fist to blink blearily at him. “I’m trusting you on this, son,” he said warily. “Don’t make me regret it.”

They stared exhaustedly at each other, frowns etched deep onto each of their faces, until there was a sharp rap on the door that made Arthur jump in his seat.

Hosea squinted at the door, then jumped up to his feet. "Oh, shit, that must be Hank."

Arthur took a long drink of his water, furrowing his brow at how his heart rate spiked as Hosea made his way to the front door, opening it to reveal a short yet lanky balding brunette man with a wrinkled square face, bundled up in a beige trenchcoat over a dandy outfit of lilacs and grays. At seeing Hosea, Hank reached out his arms and yanked the man to him, planting kisses on each of his cheeks before holding him out at arm's length and giving him a rattle. Then, in a high-pitched, lilting voice, Hank cried, "Mordy! Honey! How good it is to see you! We _missed_ you last night!"

Adrenaline flooded through Arthur's system like a burst dam, flooring him as surely as if he'd been struck by a train, sending a violent tremor through his arm that threatened to spill his water, forcing him to set it down.

Hank turned his head to look over Hosea's shoulder and spotted him. "Oh! Is this your son you told us so much about?!"

Primal terror spread through his mind like a wildfire as a wave of nausea washed up from his stomach. 

Hosea sighed. "Hello, Hank…"

Hank looked away from Arthur, and Arthur could breathe again, gathering enough wits to scream at himself in his mind _What the hell is wrong with you?_

Hank clicked his tongue as he looked Hosea up and down. "Oh, honey, you look like Hell doused in Holy water. Has it been a rough time for you sweethearts?"

Hosea delicately extracted himself from Hank's hold and patted the man on the shoulder, looking between him and Arthur. "Hank, this is my son, Arthur. Arthur, this is my costar, Hank Merryweather."

"Why, it is a _pleasure_ to meet you, Arthur!" Hank drawled, taking off his hat and toeing off his boots.

Arthur couldn't speak. His heartbeat pounded in his head as his hands curled into white-knuckled fists.

Why, of all his luck on this godforsaken Earth, did Hank have to both look and sound like **_him?_ **

And _why was he coming over with his hand outstretched-_

"Your Daddy speaks very highly of-" Hank started saying as he got close, and Arthur flinched away from him with a sharp gasp, nearly scrambling back out of his chair as the words _Don't touch me_ got lodged in and stuck in his throat. 

_He's not HIM goddammit!_

Hank stopped in his tracks and pulled back his hand, deflating slightly. "Oh. I see. _Pff,_ silly me - I may not have a problem with your tuberculosis, sweetie, but if you don't wanna handshake, you have every right!"

Hank was _definitely_ not _him._

Then why did he _smell like him?_ How could he possibly smell like rancid sweat and tobacco spit and rot? Was the smell even real? It couldn't be real, could it?

"Arthur?" came Hosea's voice. "Are you okay?"

Arthur looked up at Hosea and met his suspicious, questioning gaze, glancing between him and Hank as if trying to solve a puzzle.

**_Don't._ **

He felt his eyes glaze over as he started to hyperventilate.

"Arthur?" Hosea asked again.

_Answer him!_

A choked, strangled noise came out of his throat that sent him coughing into his sleeve.

Footsteps approached him until they were right beside him. "Arthur, can I touch you?"

Lyle's voice echoed through his ears as a dull roar. _Why are you so fucking difficult?!_

A second voice came close behind, high and lilting. _Do you like ol' Sonny touching you like that…?_

His vision tunneled as he watched Hosea's mouth move but barely make a sound, his voice sounding like it was coming through six closed doors.

Lyle's roar came again. _Use your words, boy!_

There were so many hands on him. Around his throat, crushing his wrist, pulling his hair, spreading his-

The loud clatter of his chair slamming into the ground snapped him back to the present, and he could see Hank off to the side holding his hand over his heart, could see Hosea knelt down in front of him, his hands held up, open-palmed and disarming, and his _face-_

He knew.

He knew he knew he knew he knew he knew-

 _"Arthur!"_ Hosea yelled after him as Arthur tore up the stairs, rushing towards his room. He heard Hosea's footsteps come running up behind him, and he pushed his aching body faster. "Arthur what's wrong?! If you tell me what's wrong we can fix-!"

Arthur whirled around as soon as he crossed through the threshold of his doorway, and he had just enough time to see the look of shock, surprise, worry, anger, and horror flicker across Hosea's face as he grabbed his bedroom door and slammed it shut in the man's face hard enough to make the walls shake, right before he flipped the lock with a harsh _click._

He slowly backed away from the door until he hit the edge of his bed, then shakily sank down to the floor, gasping and wheezing as he pulled his knees to his chest and encased his head in his arms, rocking back and forth.

And there he stayed.

\--

_Hosea and I haven’t spoken in a week._

_I’ve always known that I was a fool. I also know now that I am a coward, and a weak man. There has sparsely been a time where I have hated myself more._

_And yet, I can’t_ _stop_ _. There is nothing in this world that I desire more than to just… keep_ _pushing_ _. To leave it all behind me, like I have everything else. The thing about that is that instead of leaving it behind me with the rest, all the rest seems to have caught up with me, too. Instead of focusing on the next job, the next hunt, the next task, all I am left to do is just… think._

_My father has invaded my nightmares. Colm, too._

_I can’t stop thinking about Isaac. About Eliza._

_I can’t stop thinking that it’s no wonder they were killed, when the man who was supposed to protect them walked into a trap like a dumb damsel and then got used up by a man half his size like a_ _brutalized whore_ _._

_Every day I wake up and wish that he’d killed me and left my body for the gators. That would’ve been far kinder than letting me live. Than letting me see that I’d finished from it._

_Did part of me want it? Am I that_ _pathetic_ _?_

_Bill sure seemed to think so._

_If only the Law could see me. “Dutch’s Best Gun and Right Hand” reduced to a cowering, crying wreck._

_It haunts me to think what Dutch would have thought if he’d known._

_It haunts me to think what Hosea would think._

_He’s put together that I have some kind of problem with Hank. He lets my door be closed every time Hank comes over, and Hank never comes upstairs. I pity the man. It’s not his fault he has an unfortunate face that makes my body act like I’m still in that shack._

_I can’t stand being in the same room as_ ~~_him._~~ _Hosea. We’ve stopped sharing meals and eat in our rooms. I only see him anymore when he brings me food or milk or drags me out to relieve myself or when I hack my lungs up. I told him I didn’t want to do the Shabbat prayers this past weekend. He must think I hate him. I let him think that._

_I don’t know what to do._

_~~If the gun cellar wasn’t locked~~ _

_~~If I had my knife with m~~ _

_I don’t want to die but I just want this to_ **_stop_ ** _._

He heard the front door open downstairs, then heard Albert’s voice drift up through the floorboards as the man cheerily greeted Hosea. Arthur set down his pencil and frowned down at his words framed by a dozen sketches of the wendigo’s snarling or screaming face, smiling with blood dripping out of its mouth or with flesh between its teeth, crawling around in scratchy darkness. He shut his journal and stashed it in his night-stand as he heard a pair of feet climb the stairs, then looked up to his doorway to spy Albert appear, knocking on his doorframe and beaming at him. “Arthur! My dear friend, I _got the photograph!”_

Arthur nodded absently as he looked out the window and watched Hosea walk out the back door towards the horse shed, grabbing The Count’s bridle.

He felt Albert’s weight push the mattress down and then felt him pull his legs up. Albert continued gushing “So there I was, back in the mountains again, freezing my poor nose off - on firm and solid ground this time - and I find, of all things, a nest! So I-” as Hosea bridled and saddled the old stallion, mounted up, and rode off into the night, his hat pulled low over his face.

“Arthur? Are you listening to me?” Albert prompted, his voice still dripping with excitement. “Did you hear that they were a mated trio?”

Arthur blinked absently and turned to look at him. “M’sorry,” he rasped. “Huh?”

Albert blinked at him, and slowly, his smile fell. “Are you quite all right?” he asked gently.

Arthur idly ran his hands over and through each other as he dropped his gaze to his knees. He shook his head.

“Did something happen while I was gone?” Albert prompted, reaching out a tentative hand. Arthur nodded, and Albert firmly grasped his knee. “What was it?”

Arthur sighed. “Things have just… been rough. With my health. Things have been pretty… strung out in this house. Don’t worry about it. Please.” Shaking his head and forcing his hands to still, Arthur covered Albert’s hand with one of his own and took a shallow breath, raising his head and forcing a smile. “Tell me about them eagles.”

Albert tilted his head at him, then pulled his satchel into his lap and opened it up, digging through it. “Well first, I have something to cheer you up!” He pulled out a photograph and held it up to his stomach, then beamed at Arthur and puffed out his chest. “Guess what I got developed?”

Albert pushed the photograph into Arthur’s hands, and when Arthur looked down at it, his breath stilled in his lungs as it felt like his heart caved in on itself.

It was the picture Albert had taken of him and Hosea out by that creek. In a lovely black and white portrait, framed by trees, the two of them stood, their mouths open wide in smiling laughter as they stood half-collapsed against each other, their eyes screwed up in joy as their hands clutched at each other’s shoulders.

They were the very picture of love and mirth, caught in a moment of pure simplicity.

A tremor rippled across his shoulders and his face, and he hitched a breath. He blinked, and a tear fell, barely missing the photograph. He shakily inhaled and bowed his head, raising a hand to cover his eyes. “Goddammit,” he choked out.

“Arthur?” Albert prompted, his voice small. “I… I thought it’d cheer you up…”

A sob slipped out of his lungs as he sat up and furiously wiped at his eyes, sniffling. “God, I- Al? I need to- tell you some things. But I can’t be in this damn house, or this bed, I- can you help get me out under the stars? I feel like I can’t breathe.”

“I-I-” Albert stuttered for a moment, looking him up and down. Arthur did his best to look at his friend with every ounce of begging he could muster. “I- _Of course,”_ Albert finally breathed, moving to stand.

In fifteen minutes, both men were dressed and bundled up against the mild night chill, stepping out of the back door arm-in-arm. Killer pricked his ears up and called out to him, tossing his head in his stall. Arthur gestured towards the horse, and Albert led him out across the backyard to come to rest against the stall door, where Killer immediately started tickling his face with his whiskers and nosing his head and chest. Another sob slipped out of Arthur as he leaned against Killer for support, slowly rubbing up and down the length of his nose and scratching behind his stallion’s ear as the thoroughbred made a low, soothing nicker. Albert kept a firm, heavy hand against his back as they stood beside the horse, and sandwiched between them both, Arthur looked up at the wide, open, clear sky - not blotted by any ceilings or corrupted by any smog or swamp gas, but shimmering with endless rapids of stars, flowing and twinkling through the dark.

“Things have been _bad,_ Al,” he said hoarsely. He blinked rapidly and buried his face in the warm hair of Killer, who tucked his head against his chest with another low, soothing noise. “Real bad. I…” He let out a slow, stuttering breath.

Albert squeezed at him and pressed closer. “I’m here to listen,” he said gently.

Arthur took a long moment to steel himself. Finally, he swallowed thickly and sucked in a breath. “I’ve been feeling like a piss-poor excuse of a man recently. A piss-poor excuse of a-” he bit back the word _son._ He shook his head. “I’ve been having these nightmares. And lately they’ve become waking nightmares, too. And I- I’ve been doing everything I can to hide it, bury it, but all I’ve done is- is push Hosea away. I can’t stand being with him no more ‘cause I’m so terrified that either he’ll figure out or I’ll tell him wh- what _happened_ to _cause all this.”_

Albert remained quiet for a long, fragile moment. Then, he delicately asked, “Wouldn’t that…? Help…?”

Arthur emphatically shook his head, causing Killer to jerk his. “No, no… I- Not with this. Not with _this._ Al, I never, _ever_ wanted anyone in the gang to _know.”_

Albert paused for another long, heavy moment. “...I’m not part of your gang,” he said gingerly.

Arthur slowly caressed his hand up and down Killer’s face, staring into the deep dark eye of his friend. The same eye that came to rescue him when he woke up in his own personal Hell. 

He took a deep breath, then started.

"Back in Lemoyne… there was this… man. And h-he… he hurt me. _Real bad._ And it was-" he ground his teeth and screwed his eyes shut. "-a _stupid mistake._ I should have _known._ There was every warning sign, but I- I- I missed 'em, or ignored 'em, and I turned my back on him and h-he-"

He punched the stall door with all the strength he could muster alongside a broken snarl, making Killer and Albert both jolt. He bared his teeth against the tears that threatened to fall as he trembled in rage.

Albert shifted uneasily on his feet. "What did he _do…?"_ Albert asked quietly.

Arthur hissed through his teeth and turned to slump his back against the stall door, blinking hard up at the sky. The cool, clean breeze gently brushing across his face, combined with the scents of Killer and Albert's cologne, were the only things preventing him from buckling. He took as deep a breath as he could manage, forcing himself to be present. In a dull monotone, he said, "He… caught me off guard. Hit me over the head. And I didn't fight him off, so he…" he slowly licked his lips, swallowed, and wheezed out a sob. "He climbed on top of me and he…" He started hyperventilating, curling into himself. He opened his mouth to try and speak, but the words died in his throat, replaced only by breathless sobs.

It was apparently enough for Albert, who removed his hands to clasp them tightly over his mouth as he stared at him, pale and wall-eyed, glistening with tears in the moonlight.

Arthur kicked the stall door and fisted his hands in his hair. _“Stupid mistake,”_ he hissed. Killer gently lipped at his knuckles where he was pulling his hair a little too hard.

“I-” Albert started, muffled by his hands. Slowly, he reached out towards Arthur with slow, wary movements, and Arthur felt fit to melt down at how Albert seemed almost frightened to touch him. “I’m sorry. I’m- My God. That’s… _terrible.”_

Arthur made a low, dry huff.

“D-Did you tell the police?!” Albert blurted. 

_“Get the hell out of here_ with that, Albert,” Arthur gruffed, crossing his arms tightly over his chest as he stared out at the night. “Even if I felt like walkin’ up to the police in general with the price on my head, you think they woulda believed me?! Some big bastard got overpowered by an eely son of a bitch?! Ha. And even if they did, what’s to stop them from laughing me out of the station, or tryin’ to hang _me_ for sodomy?!”

Albert took a half-step back as Arthur’s voice continued to climb. “I-I- Well you had to do something, right?! Arthur, you deserve justice-!”

“Ain’t no justice for a thing like that,” Arthur said hoarsely, curling into himself even more. “It was my fault anyway.” He ground his teeth. “Sometimes I’m scared I wanted it, and that’s why… it happened.”

Albert’s jaw slowly flapped without sound as the man anxiously hovered beside him. “...I don’t know what to say.” A minute of agonizing silence hung between them both as Arthur went back to caressing Killer’s face, repeatedly blinking back tears as he shook. “Arthur, I… what do you need me to say?”

Arthur shrugged and clenched his jaw, tracing the sickle on Killer’s head with his fingertips.

“Arthur… I think… you need to tell someone else about this,” Albert said warily, trembling like a leaf. “Someone who might know how to help you. Because I- I’m just standing here thinking about how terribly sad and scary that must have been, and I- I-I-I want to be here for you in what ways I can, but I- _oh, Arthur,_ I don’t know _how!”_

Arthur slowly closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against Killer’s, who gently pushed his nose against his sternum. “Just… don’t treat me like I’m weak,” he whispered, his voice breaking. “Distract me?”

Albert sucked in a deep breath and nodded, wrapping his hands firmly around Arthur’s shoulders, and Arthur finally, finally relaxed. “Okay. I- O-Okay. But, Arthur, I really think you should tell Hosea abou-”

“No,” Arthur said sharply, turning around to clasp Albert’s wrists. “And don’t you tell him neither. _Swear to me,_ Al, _promise me_ you won’t tell him.”

“I promise!” Albert said immediately, searching his face with wide, questioning eyes. “But why can’t you tell him? What’s so bad about it?”

Arthur bit his lower lip and let go of Albert’s wrists, wrapping an arm around his middle while he used his other hand to rub at his eyes. “He just… doesn’t need to know,” he said softly. “He’s been through enough shit, and he… and he and Dutch both taught me all about how not to walk into situations like that, and how to get out of them if I do, and I failed at- goddamn everything, and I can’t- live with myself- if he-” his voice cut out.

“Okay,” Albert said gently. “Okay. Okay. Again, my dear friend, I’m here for whatever you need, in whatever ways I can. ...Would you like a hug?”

Arthur huffed a laugh as a brief, fleeting smile flickered across his face. He nodded.

The next second, Albert was crushing him in as big of a hug as the soft, portly man could manage. Arthur tucked his chin over Albert’s shoulder and hugged him back, letting out a long, shuddering breath of relief.

After a long few minutes, Albert prompted, “May I interest you in a distracting game of dominos as I tell you more about my eagles?”

A smile flickered across Arthur’s face again. “...That sounds mighty nice.”

The rest of that night passed in relative peace, spent in the bright and calming company of Albert, the both of them sharing in easy conversation mixed with the gentle, soft clink of tiles. 

For the time being, all was well, and the shared weight of the burden bowing Arthur’s spine broke him out of the ever-darkening rut he’d found himself in. 

When the time came for Albert to leave, Hosea still hadn’t returned. Arthur pulled out Albert’s picture and stared at it for a long moment, smiling softly at it, before shuffling across the hall to lay it on Hosea’s pillow with a wary, apologetic sigh. When he returned to his room, he opened up his journal, sketched Albert laughing over the domino board and Killer’s bright-eyed face, then lowered his head to a dreamless sleep.

When he woke up, there was a cup of still-steaming chamomile tea on his night-stand, right next to a note that read:

_Ran out to get groceries and a frame for that picture! Love you!_

They went back to sharing meals together and passing the time playing games or reading together after that, intermingled with visits from Albert every other day, and while the nightmares persisted, he managed to sketch out the dark images in his journal before falling back into dreamless sleep, having bled his mind dry. 

And for almost a week, Arthur was able to convince himself that everything was finally… okay.

Almost.

\--

Arthur woke up - not with a start, but with the suddenness that one accumulates after decades on the run when sensing a threat, eyes snapping open while the body remains still.

There was something in the room with him.

He took a moment to stare at the ceiling as his heartbeat shivered in his chest, uneasily pounding up into a steady wardrum beat as adrenaline began slithering through his veins. He furrowed his brow at the early dawn light painting his room in soft, faint lilac and shivering shadows. The wind from outside blew freely through the house, bringing with it all the scents of their neighborhood - cool morning frost and mountain air, but mixed with the foul odor of decay. The kind of stench that could only come from a corpse long dead.

And on top of the smell, was the… aura. Like pure evil. Like hatred. Like… hunger.

A low, unnatural hiss rattled from the shadowy corner of his room, and Arthur snapped his gaze down.

Standing in the darkness, staring at him with beady, milky, filmy eyes, standing pale and gaunt to the point of being nigh-skeletal, with a half-rotted face full of sharp, jagged teeth pulled up in a sick smile under a head of sparse, wispy brunette hair, was the wendigo.

He couldn’t move. Couldn’t speak - or yell for help, or even scream. He was trapped, on his back, on his bed, as the… _thing_ let out another low hiss, then crouched down and began crawling on all fours towards him.

Arthur could do nothing but watch as a long, slender, skeletal hand rose up to slide onto his mattress at the foot of his bed, then slowly closed, scrunching up his blankets before its twin rose up and pushed down on the mattress, and Arthur both saw and felt the mattress sink as its weight pushed down. Its head rose up above the edge of the mattress next, and the beast let out a supernatural screech that reverberated through the room as it sprung up onto the mattress, making it shudder. It scrambled up to loom over Arthur’s face, breathing heavily, and its hot, rotten breath ghosted over Arthur’s skin, summoning goosebumps as it slowly spread its hands over his chest and pushed, pinning him down, and he _couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, couldn’t scream, couldn’t do_ **_anything,_ ** as it opened its mouth and let out an enraged, victorious screech before _lunging-_

There was a flicker and sense of vertigo like one gets when waking, and suddenly the wendigo was gone, his limbs were free, and his lungs were moving again, sucking in a frantic gasp.

He used it to scream.

Hosea came stumbling through the door, squinting groggily through the shadows before jolting in shock as Arthur scrambled backwards and stood on the bed, clawing himself up the wall to press himself flat against the boards, hyperventilating and shaking. 

“Arthur,” Hosea said hoarsely, his voice still bogged down from sleep as he frantically tried to follow Arthur’s wide-eyed gaze, searching the shadows of his room for a threat that wasn’t there. He stopped after a single case of the room, coming up to Arthur’s side. “Arthur, hey, calm down. You’re safe. You’re _safe,_ son.”

Arthur shook his head even as he slowly sank back down onto the mattress. A low, broken whimper came out of his throat as he rubbed at his arm, and when Hosea’s hand slowly raised towards his head and paused, he nodded, closing his eyes and shuddering as Hosea ran his hand through his hair, leaning into his hand.

“Do you want to talk about it?” Hosea prompted, voice soft and casual.

Arthur started quickly running his hands over and through each other, twisting his fingers through each other and as he opened his eyes and forced himself to take a deep breath, coughing weakly into his collar for a long moment. Finally, he managed, “...It felt so real. What the _hell,_ how could it feel so real?!”

Hosea tilted his head as he tucked a strand of Arthur’s hair behind his ear. “What did?”

Arthur grimaced and shook his head. “There was- a goddamn- _wendigo._ In my-” he forcefully gestured “-my room. It stood right there, smiling at me, and then it crawled on my bed and I could f- feel it, it made indents and goddamn everything, it had a _smell,_ I felt its breath, I- shit, I still got the goosebumps, I-” he slammed his fists into his lap with a strangled noise, turning his head to look at Hosea. “I _never_ had any nightmare that felt that real. What the hell even was that?!”

Hosea let out a sympathetic hiss through his teeth before sitting on the bed next to Arthur, his thigh pressed against Arthur’s shin. He raised a hand to firmly clasp Arthur’s shoulder and started rubbing hard at the muscles, coaxing them to unwind and forming a line of connection that Arthur eagerly latched onto to ground him down out of the sickening haze of adrenaline and terror. Hosea wiped the last of the sleep from his eyes with his free hand and said, “It sounds like you had one of them… in-between hallucinations. Your mind got trapped between sleep and wakefulness and…” he shrugged and vaguely gestured. “...made something up to make sense of it. Lots of folk think it’s demons or actual monsters, but that’s just a crock of superstitious bullshit.” He frowned. “Dutch would get them every once in a while. After Annabelle.” Hosea yawned, then let out a slow sigh, slumping to stare at the ground. “I’m not surprised you got one, after… this Hell year.”

Arthur snorted softly and nodded. “I… yeah. I guess.” He took another deep breath, relishing in the sensation of his adrenaline ebbing away.

“What I _am_ surprised at…” Hosea began, turning his head to look at him again, “...is that this is the first nightmare where you haven’t run me out of the room.”

Arthur scrubbed a shaky hand over his face. “None of the others ever made me doubt reality before,” he muttered. 

Hosea gently punched him in the shoulder. “Well, you’re real, I’m real, and that- wendigo?” Arthur nodded. “That _ain’t_ real. But what is real, is the terror. Stuff like that is enough to rattle even the strongest of men. You’re okay.”

Arthur took one last deep breath, settling down at last with a shudder as his heartbeat returned to normal. He nodded once more. “...Thanks, ‘Sea,” he rasped.

Hosea gave him a small smile, ruffling his hair. Arthur didn’t even bat him away - just grumbled. “Think there’s any chance you can get back to sleep?”

Arthur shook his head. “Not in Hell.”

Hosea grunted. “Eh, me neither. You damn near gave me a heart attack, so what say you I help you out to the outhouse, we get you set up here with some milk, and I run out to get some things to make your favorite breakfast? Hmm?”

Arthur smiled tiredly at him. “You gonna make me cheesy eggs and beef crumbles?”

Hosea poked his nose. “With hash browns.”

“It ain’t my birthday _yet,_ old man,” Arthur chuckled, even as he allowed Hosea to help him up to his feet.

“No, it’s just the day after tomorrow,” Hosea drawled, bumping shoulders with him. “What the hell do you even want as a present anyway?”

Arthur harrumphed. “Think you can whip up a cure for tuberculosis?”

Hosea looked Arthur up and down and thumped him in the chest. “I’ll do my best.”

In a little over half an hour, Arthur was back in his bedroom, bundled up in his shawl again with a glass of milk at his side and the most recent crime novel Hosea pawned off on him in his lap, picking up where he left off as Hosea rode out to get fresh eggs and meat. He settled in with a long sigh, resuming the investigation of detective-what’s-his-name through the streets of London, letting himself be eased back into a sense of normalcy and peace.

After a few pages, he was as engaged in the story as he could be, slowly raising his brow as the detective got dazzled by a dark-haired temptress who coaxed him up the stairs of her mansion with the promise of sharing a “meal” with her while her husband was away on “business.”

Then the detective got struck over the head.

_Now c'mere…!_

Pain bloomed in his head as his vision blurred.

_Don't you hate ol' Sonny now…_

His room shifted and flickered with that hellish shack. The cool wind of November in Colorado mixed with the suffocating smog of July in Lemoyne.

_Don't hate him…_

He could _feel_ his hands on him. Why could he feel his hands?!

He knew - he _knew_ \- that he was in his own bed, but the vision of him being dragged into _his_ bed was layered on top of it, playing over reality like a moving picture reel - only as crystal clear as life, with every part of his body responding as if not a single second had passed from that living nightmare.

A hand closed around his throat and pinned him down, so he clawed his way out of bed, sending the book crashing to the floor. A hand pulled at his belt and yanked at his jeans, so he grabbed his heavy coat and threw it around himself. His vision was still in that shack, his room melded into the background as if it was visible through the windows.

He needed to get out. Get out. Get out. Run.

_Oh, you’re real pretty, now ain’t you?_

Tears streamed down his cheeks as he screwed his eyes shut and gritted his teeth. He was flipped over and shoved face first into the bed, a hand on his hip-

In a numb fugue, his legs carried him into the hallway where he staggered to the stairs. Not the bed. He needed to get away from the bed.

_Are you tight, too?_

He was suddenly downstairs, but all the dark shadows still felt suffocating. He still felt trapped.

_Time to find out!_

A whimper slipped out of his throat as he blundered his way across the floor to his boots, shoving them haphazardly onto his feet. He needed to get out, get out, get out get out get out.

The two realities continued to play over one another, dueling one another as he stumbled towards the back door, nearly falling through it. He pushed through it and suddenly slipped on the ice, slamming down hard onto his palms and knees, and the bite of pain on his skin and in his joints doubled with the burning _sting,_ pain splitting him open in piercing white-hot rivers, his ears filling with the sound of _that man’s_ laugh, _that man’s_ snarl of effort and noises of pleasure, the sound of skin against skin-

“Killer,” Arthur wheezed, crawling through the frosted grass towards the horse, scrambling to fight his way back to his feet.

_Ooh, we got a fighter! Try your best, pet! Your pecker says you want me!_

He collapsed against the stall door, and Killer looked at him with wide, concerned eyes, letting out a loud neigh. Arthur buried his face in the thoroughbred’s cheek.

_Oh, you struggled… and you lost. But it was quite a tussle, I tell you. Quite a tussle, my pet._

He could feel how hot his tears were. Could still feel how hot the blood streaked down his thighs was. The semen.

_See? Friendship ain’t so tough… and neither is you._

“Come on,” Arthur said shakily, opening the stall door. Killer looked at him curiously, but stepped out of the stall, following the soft commands of his hand on his chin.

He hoisted himself onto the stallion’s bare back, and when he did, there was no bolt of agony that shot through his rear and up his spine like it had when he first tried to sit in his saddle, yet he still felt it, a phantom impression just like the unseen filth that caked him, that he _knew_ wasn’t there.

He just needed to _get away._ He just wanted to feel _safe._

“Hyah!” he cried, clutching at Killer’s sides with his knees, his hands fisted in the stallion’s mane, and with neither a saddle nor bridle, Killer rounded around the horse shelter and slowly kicked up to a gallop, away from the house and the warped memories of that shack, away from civilization, and into the depths of the wilderness - the inverse of that accursed day where he rode Killer at a dead sprint towards Saint Denis, hovering up out of his saddle as the wind stole his tears.

The wind of Colorado did the same with his tears this time around, only it stung far more from the cold. The rolling, wide, open, majestic countryside of the West felt far vaster and freeing than the tangled, choked swamps of Lemoyne. There was no haze of smog or dust in the air as he and Killer flew across the ground, bolting towards the distant mountains. Killer’s sides were warm and firm between his legs as the horse heaved for breath, pistoning his legs at near full speed. The air howled and screamed past his ears as the both of them simply ran, and ran, and ran, and ran, the world whipping by them in crisp pale hues.

Finally, Killer charged up a hill towards a great oak tree, standing like an old guardian over the surrounding countryside, overlooking the mountains on the horizon, the distant forests, the intermittent woods, and Denver in the distance, a small haze of gray buildings forming a silhouette in front of the rising sun. Arthur let out a low, soft _whoa_ and leaned back on Killer’s back, slowing the stallion to a stop under the great oak’s barren boughs. He gratefully patted his friend on the neck, then warily slid off of his back, numbly walking to the tree to collapse against it and slide down to the ground, pressing his back against its bark as he drew his knees up to his chest and held his head in his arms, hiding his head in his coat.

And then, he just… breathed. And cried. And breathed. 

And _cried._

He had no idea how long he stayed there like that, barely holding himself together as Killer idly grazed beside him. He also had no idea how much time had passed before he heard Hosea’s voice distantly cry _“Arthur?!”,_ carried on the wind.

Arthur raised his head and sniffled, panting for breath as he wiped at his eyes. He looked in the direction from where he came and saw a white horse with a lone rider in the distance, cantering along the trail that Killer had left. At some point, The Count broke out into a dead sprint straight towards him, and Arthur lowered his gaze and continued to wipe his palms across his eyes, his shoulders shaking with more silent sobs. 

In less than a minute, The Count came tearing up the hill and crested it, then skidded to a stop with a huge plume of dirt as Hosea jumped off and stormed towards him, red in the face with eyes dark with rage and shining with tears.

 _“What the hell are you playing at?”_ the man snarled, coming to a stop in front of him. “You goddamned son of a bitch, what the hell do you think you’re doing? _Running off like that?!_ Are you _trying to get yourself killed?!”_

Arthur hiccuped a breath and cradled his head in the crook of his arm, screwing his eyes shut.

Hosea started frantically pacing back and forth in front of him, his footfalls heavy and uneven in the grass. “You’ve gotta tell me, Arthur, because quite frankly _I don’t know anymore!_ Now I have _tried!_ I have tried, and _tried_ to be patient with you, to give you space, to give you time, to let you work out whatever you need to work out, but it _ain’t getting any better,_ so you listen up close, you _bastard_ \- I can take you pushing me away, I can take you snapping at me, I can take you hating me, I can take you never speaking to me again, but the one thing I _cannot do-”_ Hosea whirled on him and stomped a foot into the ground “-is _fucking lose you!_ I won’t!” Hosea was fully screaming now. _“I love you_ like you’re my own flesh and blood, and you are the only thing I have _fucking left,_ so this is it! I’m done! And we are not leaving here until you look at me and tell me what is _wrong,_ god _DAMMIT!”_

Arthur sucked in a shuddering breath and blinked open his eyes. _“I can’t do this anymore,”_ he wept.

Hosea heaved for breath above him, staring down at him with an expression of raw anxiety. “Can’t do what?” he breathed, hoarse.

Arthur let out a broken sob and lolled his head back against the tree, hugging his arms around his chest as he shook.

Hosea slowly, carefully knelt down in front of him. “Can’t do _what,_ son?” he asked, voice gentle yet firm and insistent.

Arthur took three deep breaths. On the last exhale, he choked out another sob and bared his teeth. He swallowed, then forced himself to look at Hosea, his bottom lip trembling. “In Lemoyne. Saint Denis. Back when we were looking for Jack,” he croaked. He hugged himself tighter. “I was lookin’. Day and night, non-stop for leads, you know that. I was running myself ragged looking for that boy.”

“I know,” Hosea said quietly, nodding along.

Arthur bit his lip and blinked away a couple more tears. “It wasn’t because I didn’t care,” he wheezed. “It was just… I… You know how I am with cities. It was all just- so much. I was- I’d hit a dead end, and I’d been at it for days, I’d barely gotten any sleep, and I was feelin’ raw so I- I did what I always do and I rode out into the wilds. It was just supposed to be for a little while. Get away from all the people and the noise and the-” his voice broke, and he dragged in another breath as he wiped his hand at the corners of his eyes and sniffled again. Hosea was still nodding, his brow pinched upwards. “I- came across this shack in the woods. There was a man there, on his porch… he invited me inside to share a meal. And I hadn’t eaten in a couple days, and I’d come across lonely folk before who just wanted someone to talk to, or less kind folk who I’d walked out on or fought off, so I thought, why not?”

Hosea’s stare was boring into him. He gave a slow nod, prompting him to go on.

Arthur let out another sob. “I messed up,” he choked. “I turned my back on him. I let him get behind me. And he- he hit me over the head and then he- he-” he started rocking back and forth and screwed his eyes shut for a long moment, fisting a hand into his hair. He forced his eyes open and shook his head against the raw memory, replaying on loop inside his head. “He dragged me into his bed…” he said in a dull monotone. “He pulled my pants down… he spit in his hand, and… pushed inside me… and I just… laid there. I laid there until he was... done...”

Hosea’s eyes were wide and unseeing. Slowly, excruciatingly slowly, the man pushed himself up to his feet and raised his hands to scrub up his face and push back into his hair as he stared into the middle-distance, his feet absently drifting as water gathered in huge pools in his eyes.

"He dumped me off in a grove of corpses and I just… ran…" He sniffled again and dragged in another shaking breath. "I was so goddamn stupid," he hissed. "I've fought through worse than a bump on the head before… I fought my way out of Colm O'Driscoll's damn cellar… but I just… let him…"

 _"Stop,"_ Hosea ground out. His eyes finally focused and snapped down to Arthur. "Arthur, stop." In one movement, he swooped back down in front of Arthur and raised his hands in a silent question, and at Arthur's nod, he framed his face in his hands. "You were _raped!"_ he cried, voice strangled and pained as if he’d been shot, and Arthur let loose a fresh wave of tears at the sight of them slipping down Hosea’s cheeks. “There’s no ‘could have,’ ‘would have,’ ‘should have’ - _Arthur.”_ Hosea’s grasp tightened. “He raped you. My boy, _he raped_ you. _Stop_ all this talk.”

Arthur frantically shook his head. “But I didn’t fight him off, he was _half my size-”_

“That doesn’t _matter!”_ Hosea barked, shuffling closer to press his forehead to his, and Arthur let out another sob. “It doesn’t matter if he hadn’t hit you over the head at all! It doesn’t matter if you just stood there and never said no - if he _touched you,_ and you _didn’t want it,_ then it’s _rape!_ None of this is on _you!”_

Arthur bit his bottom lip again and shook his head once more, his breaths picking up into hyperventilating. Hosea crushed him to his chest and curled around him, tucking his head over his, and Arthur’s senses flooded with the smell of the man who was as good as a father to him - shaving cream, gun oil, pinewood and cedar smoke. The world slowly started to fall away as he melted into the safety of Hosea’s arms, shuddering as the man carded his fingers through his hair.

“But… But…” Arthur croaked. He hiccuped a breath. “I… I- finished f-from it…”

Hosea wheezed out a harsh breath and held him tighter. “Cocks don’t match up with our minds. They respect one thing over all else. Stimuli. _It doesn’t mean you wanted it,_ dear boy. It was just your body reacting to stimuli, like goosebumps from the cold.”

Arthur closed his eyes and let out a long, shuddering breath. _“Stupid…”_ he whimpered.

“You’re not stupid,” Hosea said firmly, carding his hand through his hair again combined with a kiss to the top of his head. “God, son… _My boy…_ Why didn’t you tell us? Why didn- _God,_ Dutch went into the city soon after, Arthur, why didn’t you tell him?”

A harsh noise ground out of Arthur’s throat at the thought. “Besides the fact that Jack was still missing? I _couldn’t have told Dutch,_ ‘Sea. He was bad enough after Colm, hanging over me and apologizing non-stop until I had to coddle him like a damn child. And the way he was acting, I didn’t trust him not to make some huge production out of it and go back to kill the bastard, and I wouldn’t have shed any tears but god _dammit,_ I just wanted it to be _over.”_ After a long beat, he let out a soft sob and buried his face further in Hosea’s chest. “And I didn’t want him to- to look at me different. Or be disappointed in me.”

He felt Hosea look up at the sky for a moment. “Lord,” he croaked. He tucked his chin back over Arthur’s head and said, “I know better than anyone that Dutch is-” he stopped himself, his fingers curling harshly into Arthur’s shoulders. “-was, a stupid manchild, but Arthur, _he loved you._ He loved you just as much as I do. And I don’t deny that he may have ignored what you wanted or made it about himself, but that’s just because he would’ve felt scared and helpless - scared for you, helpless for not having _protected you,_ and I-” a choked sob slipped from Hosea’s chest. “I feel the same. Arthur, you shouldn't have had to go through this _alone,_ and if you didn't want to tell Dutch you could have told me or- or Susan-"

"Miss Grimshaw, who drills all the girls at least once a week on how not to get raped? That Susan? And you needed to stay focused on what we were doing in Saint Denis and keeping Dutch in ch-"

 _"Damn Saint Denis_ and damn Dutch, too! You are my _boy! Our_ boy! We would have dropped everything-!"

 _"And that's why I didn't say anything!"_ Arthur yelled, struggling back away from Hosea's chest to look him in the face. “We needed to get the hell out of there! The O’Driscolls found our camp, the Pinkertons surely would’ve found us again soon after, we’d already lost Sean, then Kieran, and you all kept talking your big talk about us getting out on a boat to Tahiti or someplace and- we needed to get out. We all needed to _get out,_ we needed to protect everyone, I- _I_ needed to protect everyone, and _I had no right cryin’_ when the others had been through worse- Mrs. Adler was _gang-raped_ for _three days_ and Tilly was used as a sex slave when she was _twelve,_ and _speaking of_ she’d been _abducted by her abusers-!”_

Hosea screwed his eyes shut and shook his head, rattling Arthur by the shoulders to get him to stop talking before cupping his jaw and locking their gaze, tears still slipping down his cheeks. “And that shames me too,” Hosea ground out, “but it _ain’t a competition,_ for _fuck’s_ sake! Relativity ain’t got nothing to do with it! _Arthur! Listen to me!_ You. Were. _Raped._ Can’t you understand that that’s one of the worst things that could possibly happen?!”

Arthur trembled in Hosea’s hold for a long moment until a sob punched out of his chest once more. He reached out for Hosea’s shirt, then got folded into the confines of the man’s coat once more, his face hidden in his chest as he cried himself out, letting himself be lulled into the calm motions of Hosea’s gentle rocking, a firm hand cupping the back of his head like a shield. 

“How ‘m I supposed to be a protector when I can’t even protect myself?” Arthur whimpered.

Hosea pressed a kiss to the top of his head. “You _are_ a protector. That family of ours would have been destroyed six times over if it hadn’t been for you. You saved all of our lives countless times, you-”

“I didn’t save Dutch.” Arthur felt Hosea’s chest convulse in a sharp exhale against his temple. “I didn’t save Sean.”

“There was nothing you could’ve done,” Hosea croaked.

Arthur slowly closed his eyes and buried his face further into Hosea’s shirt. “I didn’t save Eliza and Isaac.”

He felt Hosea freeze and stiffen.

Arthur shook his head weakly. “I deserved what happened,” he breathed.

Hosea was quiet for a long moment as his arms cinched impossibly tighter around Arthur, making Arthur’s bones creak as a joint in Hosea’s shoulder cracked. _“Oh, Arthur…”_ Hosea said lowly, a faint tremor in his voice. Then, after a long moment, Hosea dragged in a ragged breath and said, “I should have known that something was wrong. I should have seen the signs of what you’d been through and helped you sooner. I should have been there, searching Saint Denis with you instead of sitting on my ass in that house. I should have insisted to Dutch that Colm’s parlay was a trap and forbade him from going. I should have gone out looking for you sooner instead of letting a full damn day pass when they came back without you. I should have been with Annabelle instead of drunk in a ditch. I should have never risked a pregnancy with Bessie. _I should never have gotten caught by the Pinkertons and forced Dutch to get shot up in front of us all,_ now _you_ tell _me,_ son, do I deserve to be tortured for _my_ worst regrets?!”

Arthur was already shaking his head. “No,” he sobbed.

“No,” Hosea confirmed, carding a shaking hand through his hair. “You wanna know why?! Because it’s the same reason why you sure as _shit_ didn’t deserve what happened to you, and the reason is that we shouldn’t expect ourselves to be perfect or all-powerful or all-knowing or premoniscient. Sometimes we make mistakes. Sometimes we just don’t _know._ Sometimes we-” his voice broke, and he took a deep breath before slowly starting to rock with Arthur again. “Sometimes we just meet forces more powerful than us, and we’re powerless to do anything about it. Now there ain’t no greater force in this world that terrifies me more than being _powerless,_ but…” He tucked his nose into Arthur’s hair. “Arthur, you are… an impossibly strong, brave, kind, selfless, powerful _man._ And there is nothing - _nothing_ \- in this world that can ever change that. And _none_ of the folk you or I have lost-... are our _fault.”_

Hosea took a deep breath, then leaned back slightly to meet Arthur’s eyes, brushing away his tears with his coat sleeve. “You know… not too long ago, an honorable and wise man… a _good_ man... I had the honor of meeting, told me words I’ll never forget. He said, ‘You must not allow helplessness to become hopelessness, to make you forget the power you still maintain.’” Hosea slowly pushed his finger hard into Arthur’s chest, over his heart. “We live. We try. We fail. We win. We lose. We fall down, and we get _right back up.”_

Arthur slowly wet his lips and swallowed. “...on that horse,” he rasped.

Hosea’s eyes glistened as his expression crumpled, just slightly. He nodded. “As long as you _live,_ son, you’re not completely powerless. And you sure as hell aren’t a lost cause. And we may have been through Hell, and we may have put good folk through Hell, but there’s worth to be found in waking up every day and using the lessons learned from all that… _shit,_ to try and be better, and do better, and use that hard-won wisdom to protect the ones we love.” He poked Arthur hard in the chest again. “Now, you’ve got you a man waiting for you in Canada, and two - hell, if we count Lenny, _three_ little siblings who look up to you a _mighty_ lot, and a tiny nephew who needs you to teach him things, like cooking spaghetti, because Lord knows John can’t cook - and Abigail can’t neither. Now don’t tell her I said that.” Arthur snorted softly and slumped forward against Hosea’s chest again, and Hosea folded around him once more. “You’re this entire family’s hero, you wonderful boy, you strong, incredible man. What you’ve told me today doesn’t make me see you as any weaker. I only see you as even stronger.”

Arthur slowly closed his eyes and wrapped his arms around Hosea’s middle, hugging him as tight as he could manage for as long as he could. Hosea returned the gesture.

After a long while, when his tears finally began to dry, as the world seeped back in, easing his heart with the beautiful song of the wind, the rustling of the brown grass, the pale blue-gray of the cloudless sky, the soaring silhouettes of eagles, the distant chirps of prairie dogs, and the soft snorts and tail swishes of Killer and The Count as the two stallions grazed nearby, he slowly blinked and cleared his throat. 

“There’s just… one last thing I can’t get over,” he said, hoarsely.

Hosea tucked a strand of hair behind his ear. “And what’s that?” he prompted, softly.

Arthur swallowed, thickly. “This… that…” A tremor rolled through his body. “It… was my first time with a man,” he whispered, brokenly. “And I… I’m scared… that I can’t… ever be intimate with Charles because of it. I feel-... I know he won’t think that, but I feel… used. And _dirty._ And broken, because- how can I ever find- find pleasure or desire if my first time with a man was me being _raped?_ All I can ever think about is how my _first-”_ his voice died out.

Hosea took a deep breath, then slowly started rubbing his back. “Oh, my sweet boy…” he said softly. “First off... first times are overrated. No one gives a shit about the circumstances of anyone’s first time - or at least, no one worth a damn does. And if you have yourself a keeper, son - which I believe you do - it won’t matter if sex is a part of what you two have or not. Whatever you feel, whatever your gut tells you… will be the right thing for you.” After a long pause, Hosea ventured, “You know… my first time with a man wasn’t… the most positive thing. It wasn’t rape, but - sucking a fella’s cock behind the train station for ten dollars isn’t anything to put in a romance novel. And if we’re talking big things, like penetration, then my first time was with a man twice my age so that I could sleep in his bed instead of on the streets. He told me it was ‘supposed’ to hurt.” He gently sat Arthur up so that he could look Hosea in the face and see his grave expression. “It’s _not_ supposed to hurt,” Hosea said emphatically. “Anyone who tells you otherwise should be avoided. If there’s blood, there’s something wrong.”

Arthur slowly nodded, furrowing his brow in thought.

“And besides, if anyone came up to me and asked me what my first time with a man was, I wouldn’t say either of those times. My first time with a man, in my mind, was the first time it _mattered,”_ Hosea continued, carding his fingers through Arthur’s hair again as his expression softened. “And I bet you can guess what I’d say.”

Arthur blinked, then blinked again. Slowly, he lifted his gaze to meet Hosea’s. “...Dutch?” he asked quietly, a faint smile attempting to make its way onto his face.

Hosea smiled and nodded. “Him with his wild curly hair and stomach pudge and big dumbass doe-eyes.”

A weak chuckle wheezed out of Arthur’s chest as he smacked Hosea in the stomach. “Okay, old man, I don’t need to hear any further details.”

 _“My point is,”_ Hosea drawled, ruffling his hair, _“you_ get to define what counts. _You_ get to decide what you want. You get to write your own story. No one gets to write it for you. You’re only a victim forever if that’s what you write yourself as.”

Arthur nodded absently, swaying slightly as Hosea rubbed at his shoulder.

“You feeling better?” Hosea asked softly.

Arthur took one last, deep breath, then nodded and wiped the last of the moisture from his cheeks with his coat-sleeve, sniffling. “A little.” He finally, finally, smiled - a small and fragile thing. “I feel like… I can start writin’ something else than just. Reliving that night over and over. I feel like… like _tryin’._ Everything you said… hearing it… it helped. Really, ‘Sea. I…” He dropped his gaze. “Thank you. I… I needed this.”

Hosea pushed himself forward and clutched him in a hug once more - a hug which Arthur eagerly returned. “I love you no matter _what,_ you know that, right?”

Arthur nodded into Hosea’s shoulder. “And I’m so sorry for pushing you away,” he said, his voice breaking. “I just… I just wanted it to be _over.”_

Hosea’s hold tightened. “I don’t reckon it’ll ever be over. But it _will_ get better. And you’ll have me to come to whenever you need me, and then the whole rest of the family too - whoever you want to trust this to, once we make it to Canada, all right?”

Arthur remained quiet for a long moment, then tightened his hold on Hosea. “I love you, Hosea,” he said roughly. “I’ve put you through a whole lotta bullshit, but… I love you. I hope you know that.”

Hosea huffed a laugh, then used Arthur to push himself up with a loud grunt and long chain of joint cracks. “Eh, I reckon it’s worth it,” he drawled, his voice only slightly pinched from pain. “I signed myself up for you, you ornery cuss. And I’ll keep choosing you every day. Now, I believe we are both owed a certain special pick-me-up _breakfast?”_

Arthur groaned. “Augh, please,” he begged as his stomach growled, clambering back up to his feet with help from Hosea. “I’m starving.”

“Well then _come on,”_ Hosea goaded, poking him in the stomach before sauntering towards The Count. Arthur fondly shook his head and followed after him, whistling for Killer to follow.

\--

That night, he still felt the same feeling of dread as he laid in his bed. When he finally managed to drift off to sleep, the nightmares resumed, still carrying the raw sensations of hands pinning him down and pain in his core. He jerked awake with a whimpered cry, and Hosea was in his doorway seconds later.

This time, Arthur tried something he hadn’t tried since he was a young man, barely out of boyhood.

“Hosea…?” he prompted quietly in Hosea’s doorway, looking at the man still settling into his own bed after Arthur sat numbly in his own for three minutes, all of the peace he’d managed to scrounge up gone as soon as Hosea had left his room.

“Yes, Arthur?” Hosea prompted groggily, blinking at him in the dim lamplight.

Arthur swallowed. “Can I… sleep with you tonight?”

Hosea stared at him for a long moment, then chuckled softly and nodded, a fond smile growing on his face as his eyes crinkled. “Go get your bandana to tie around your face. I’ll rearrange my pillows so we’re not sleeping at face-level.”

A few minutes later, Arthur was crawling under the covers as Hosea held them up, his black bandana tied snugly over his mouth and nose as Hosea reclined mostly upright, propped up by a mess of pillows and the wall. Hosea threw the blankets over him, then pulled him close to tuck against his side; Arthur quickly settled onto the mattress and rested his head on Hosea’s sternum as a pillow, relaxing as the man slung an arm around his back.

“G’night, Arthur,” Hosea said around a yawn, sleepily ruffling his hand through Arthur’s hair.

Arthur was already fast asleep.

Both the nights and the days passed a little easier, and when his birthday arrived, Arthur was led downstairs to find Albert in a large, ridiculous hat as Hosea pulled a cake out of the oven, and then was forced to suffer through both Albert and Hosea giving a dramatic, bombastic rendition of _For He’s a Jolly Good Fellow_ with entirely too much flair for Arthur to not blush and nearly die laughing. Albert gifted him a photograph of Killer, Hosea gifted him a knitted scarf, and things felt… hopeful.

Arthur felt _happy._

And when he went to his bed that night, there was no ominous feeling of dread or fear in his heart, so wrapped in the fresh, warm memory of his thirty-seventh birthday. 

He laid his head on his pillow, and rolled onto his side, about to blow out his lamp-

-when his eyes landed on his old photo of their small, early family. Him, Hosea…

...and Dutch.

Arthur stared into the man’s face and felt something deep and terrible break in his heart as the man's absence sunk in, contrasted against flickering sensations of Dutch's grinning face lit by matches in muffins, of his booming singing voice, of his warm embrace.

He'd missed his birthday. 

Images of blood-soaked cobblestones and moonlit decay flickered behind his eyes, and slowly, he pushed himself up out of bed and made his way towards Hosea’s doorway.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Time for more extremely personal stories because maybe it might help someone:
> 
> My attacker was a woman.
> 
> It happened in the middle of a crowd. She kept repeatedly running up to me and... _touching me_ , violently groping me in places I never wanted touched, screaming out obscene things about my body, and I remember screaming, yelling at her to go away, leave me alone, I remember yelling for help, but nobody did anything. I tried to hide in my group, but she kept running up behind me and grabbing me. I kept screaming, and I cried. My group looked profoundly uncomfortable, but none of them would even look at me. I eventually hunted down my group's organizer/mentor and confessed what happened, and he hunted down the organizer of her group, who made her apologize to me. I just wanted to never see her again.
> 
> The following day, my group's organizer found me in the hallway and asked me if I wanted to pursue any punitive action against her, that her group's organizer and her school were ready and willing to do whatever I wanted. I told him I didn't want them to do anything. I didn't want to talk about it. I didn't want to _think_ about it. I just wanted it to be _over,_ and seeking punitive action would just drag it out longer.
> 
> Fast-forward two years, and I finally snapped after one-too-many traumas that I tried to simply bury and ignore. That's when I had my PTSD episode with psychotic symptoms, including hallucinations and hypersexuality. I even had a sleep paralysis incident, the only one of my life - only, instead of a wendigo, it was a hellhound. My health nosedived, even though I was healthy before. I lost weight. My hair start falling out in fistfuls. It was all so disturbing that I finally, _finally,_ sought help. I found a kind and caring therapist, and I got _help._ I also finally told my family what happened to me. They nearly had a meltdown, but their love and support and comfort were invaluable things to come home to.
> 
> There's no "right" or "wrong" way to handle surviving something so intimately horrific, but if I can say one thing, it's that none of us deserve to go through something like that alone. Seeking therapy was the best decision I've ever made in my life. I still suffer from it, and if I encounter anyone or any character that looks or acts too similar to her I have a panic attack, but I know that I can be healthy and happy and strong, even if it's something I'll always carry with me.
> 
> There were two songs that I listened to on repeat as I wrote this because I found them to be intensely cathartic - they felt like a protective bubble around me that made me feel felt and seen, and I wanted to credit them here:  
> ["Don't Fucking Touch Me" by Banshee](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gVGVP1C-tW4), and  
> ["My Little Secret" by Citizen Soldier](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=PkH2EURE4sY)
> 
> There's also an incredible series by Pop Culture Detective on YouTube called _Sexual Assault of Men Played for Laughs_ which I highly recommend watching if you feel safe and comfy doing so (and which I think Rockstar could do with watching): [Part 1 (Male Perpetrators)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uc6QxD2_yQw) and [Part 2 (Female Perpetrators)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9nheskbsU5g).
> 
> Lastly, I just want to say... thank you, so much, for all of y'all who have read this far and are still reading this work. Reading your thoughts on my writing fills me with more joy than you know ♥
> 
>  **1) Dutch van der Linde's Last Stand**  
>  **2) Escape from Saint Denis**  
>  **3) Escape from Lemoyne**  
>  **4) The Letter**  
>  **5) Reunions**  
>  **6) Unfinished Business**  
>  **7) I Know You**  
>  **8) Dreams, Omens, and Other Harbingers**  
>  **9) For Whom the Bell Tolls**  
>  **10) My First Boy**  
>  **11) National Jewish Health**  
>  **12) Sins of the Past**  
>  **13) Atonement**  
>  **14) Arcadia for Amateurs VI**  
>  **15) Violated**  
>  16) The Letter II


	16. The Letter II

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warning** for intense, at-length exploration of **emotional abuse** , implied **physical child abuse,** as well as **alcoholism, alcoholic relapse,** references to **child death** , and intense, at-length depictions of **grief.**
> 
> This chapter is another... cathartic one. And a heavy one. I come at Dutch's jugular once again, here, and I consider this a spiritual continuation of both Chapter 4 and Chapter 6. It has always been very important to me since the start to portray neither recovery nor grief as linear, and so, as I've certainly found out the hard way in my own life - grief returns with a vengeance, here, on top of the fact that processing and coming to terms with Dutch's emotionally abusive tendencies isn't something that can completely be come to terms with in one day. With that said... the core tenet of this entire work is love, forgiveness, and redemption. The same is applied to Dutch, here.
> 
> I hope y'all enjoy, and once more and always - thank you so much for your comments, no matter their length or wording or fluency. I always adore them so dearly ♥
> 
> Songs featured in this chapter:  
> [Auld Lang Syne](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=FZYvFjM1ytQ)

_ “Think we got a problem out here!” _

Arthur’s heartbeat picked up at the fear in John’s voice as he exchanged a single glance with Dutch, right before they both went running away from the vault and towards the windows. Arthur skidded to a stop in front of the glass, straining up onto the balls of his feet to case as much of the situation as he could. All he needed was the sight of Agent Milton’s ugly mug to send him swiping aside into cover, his expression drawn tight into a near-snarl as the rest of the gang scrambled to the front of the bank and slid into cover. Dutch was pressed flat to the wall at his side, straining to see while shielding himself from a clear shot, and Arthur was briefly distracted by John’s sharp intake of breath and hiss of “Shit, Abigail.”

His mind scrambled to figure out what prompted such a reaction when suddenly he saw exactly what made John so fearful for Abigail.

Milton hauled Hosea out from behind a wagon by the collar and held up the barrel of his gun towards him.

It wasn’t the first time he’d seen a lawman with a gun to the head of one of his mentors. That alone wasn’t enough to make him scared.

What made him scared was the sight of Hosea’s bowed back and ducked head alongside the rapid, shallow movement of his chest, mixed with the way every muscle in Dutch’s body in his peripheral vision went stiff and rigid, the man’s chest completely stilling.

_ “Dutch, get out here! Get out here NOW!” _

“Someone must have squealed,” Dutch wheezed as a muscle in John’s jaw ticced where he stood at the door, a split second before the younger man growled “We never shoulda gone after Bronte, Dutch.”

Arthur swallowed, his hand flexing white-knuckled around his cattleman.  _ Business is business, _ Dutch said - and what a fucking business they were in now, with an entire army of Pinkertons crouched snarling in a ring around the bank, Hosea hanging out of their jaws.

They’d made so much  _ noise  _ in Saint Denis.

And all it did was call the wolves for dinner.

Adrenaline slithered through his system, sickening him in his stomach, and he warred against himself to stop his hands from shaking. He glanced frantically around the bank, at the clenched jaws and wide, crazed analytic eyes of his brothers-in-arms as Dutch and Milton engaged in a back and forth.

All of their breathing shifted when Milton ignored Dutch’s threat to the hostages.

When the man laughed.

A soft whisper of metal tinkled through the bank as seven grips tightened at the sight of Milton’s  _ smile. _

Arthur looked rapidly back and forth between Milton and Dutch, his heartbeat climbing up his throat and into his mouth. Milton wasn’t there to talk, and he sure as hell wasn’t there for deals. Dutch was attempting to talk his way out of a noose -  _ no. _ Worse.

Dutch was trying to convince a wolf not to eat its caught rabbit.

A small tremor rolled through Arthur’s frame as Milton pressed the barrel of his gun to the nape of Hosea’s neck, making the man bow further down and curl in on himself. He tasted bile on the back of his tongue when Dutch cried out, voice strained and broken and desperate,  _ “Mr. Milton!” _ \- the cry of a man who ran out of options, backed into a corner with nowhere to go. Milton clicked back the hammer of his gun, and Arthur turned his gaze to Dutch, screaming in his mind  _ Do something, goddammit, do something, please, do something! _

He saw it - the moment the pale terror and rage in Dutch’s face froze as he saw something. The man’s eyes widened, his expression softened in the barest traces around his eyes, and then smoothed out into something eerily calm and cold. The next second the saddle-bags Dutch had slung over his shoulder was slamming into Arthur’s chest, and Arthur scrambled to catch it as Dutch drew both his Schofields and made his way towards the doors. He stepped into the doorway, and Arthur saw John’s face contort into something as confused and panicked as his own face was no doubt pulling. 

“I have a plan,” Dutch called out to Milton, stepping out the door, and John’s hand weakly reached out to try and grasp at Dutch’s elbow and pull, only for Dutch to deftly smack it away, walking out of John’s reach. John looked at Arthur the next second, wide-eyed and mouthing  _ What’s he doing? _

_ I don’t know! _ Arthur mouthed back, resituating his grip on his gun and shifting his weight - and everyone else around him resituated themselves in a wave of palpable anxiety, everyone quivering on a knife’s edge, seeing both of their leaders out in the open surrounded by dozens of aimed rifles.

Milton had whirled Hosea around as a full-body shield between him and Dutch, his arm forcefully cinched around his neck with the barrel of his gun grinding into his temple, his finger caressing the trigger as Hosea clawed at his arm and bared his teeth, staring at Dutch with the same wide eyes as Arthur and John. He said something too soft to hear and Milton choked him, holding him off-balance, leaving him only with the ability to shake his head.

“What is this ‘plan’ of yours?” Milton called out to Dutch, and Dutch slowly walked towards him with telegraphed, heavy steps, his hands raised in the air as his Schofields hung upside down from his pointer fingers like unwieldy rings.

Dutch took another step, opened his mouth, and huffed, the corners of his mouth twitching upwards ever so slightly.

“It’s a good one.”

Arthur’s eyes widened in horror as Dutch’s plan finally clicked, and then many things happened at once.

In the time it took the order from Arthur’s mind to move his body and draw his second sidearm to aid in the action of slamming their hilts against the glass with all the force he could muster, to open his mouth and scream out the order for everyone else to do the same, Dutch had twitched his wrists - just a twitch - and like a chain of firecrackers going off in an inferno, seven Pinkertons dropped dead, a single heartbeat before scarlet exploded out the back of Dutch’s shoulder, the air exploding with the roar of rifles-

_ “Goddammit, open fire, break the glass, shoot those sons of bitches!” _ finally made it out of Arthur’s mouth, screamed at the top of his lungs, layered over a ragged, blood-curdling scream of  _ “NO!” _ from Hosea - and everyone sprung into action, slamming the hilts and butts of their guns against the glass with rabid ferocity as they watched one bullet, then another, then another, another, another and another tear through Dutch in a single breath, making his body stumble and spasm with each impact as blood misted behind him in an unholy cloud, deep dark and ugly holes punching open in his front, blood leaking out to run in streams and blooming lakes through his clothes. Arthur’s eyes slid in one moment from Dutch to Hosea, and he opened fire in a rapid chain at Milton as all the men on either side of him opened fire with crazed panic, sending a hail of bullets into every head or chest aiming a barrel at either Dutch or Hosea, turning the fire onto themselves in explosions of wooden splinters and brick dust.

Hosea tore out of Milton’s slackened grip to grab Dutch by the shoulders, still standing uneasily as blood began to trickle over his quivering lip, and then all of the sudden Dutch’s legs were giving out from under him, and Arthur saw both their forms sink to the ground in the corner of his vision as he continued firing into the vitals of every man with a badge he could possibly see in a frantic, roaring rhythm - barely stopping to reload his revolvers with shaking fingers before finally switching to his Lancaster repeater after emptying them both for the third time, half-mad at how much reloading was slowing him down.

And the whole time, everyone was  _ screaming. _

_ “DUTCH!” _

_ “Oh God oh God oh God-!” _

_ “Is he alive?! Can anyone s-?”! _

_ “He’s still moving! He’s still moving! H-” _

_ “How the HELL is he still alive?!” _

_ “Hosea’s got him! He won’t let him d-” _

_ “He’s moving! He’s alive! Oh my God-” _

_ “Hosea, get him inside!” _

_ “Someone should go out there and help th-!” _

Arthur saw Javier begin springing towards the open window out of the corner of his vision, the center of it still filled with the falling bodies of lawmen, and flung out his hand, grinding out in a harsh snarl with as much ferocity as he could muster “AIN’T NO ONE GOING OUT THERE, JUST KEEP SHOOTING!”

_ “Everyone listen to Arthur!” _

_ “We’ll have no choice but to listen to Arthur forever if we don’t DO SOMETHING!” _

_ “Shut up! Shut up! Shut the hell u-!” _

_ “Uh, fellas?!” _

_ “Who the hell put YOU in ch-?!” _

_ “We need to get them out of there, let m-!” _

_ “Fellas?!” _

_ “Any of us go out there we’ll just be killed, it’s wide op-!” _

_ “We need you shooting! Keep-” _

_ “Y’ALL, DUTCH AIN’T MOVING NO MORE!” _

_ “WHAT?!” _

_ “Oh no oh God,  _ please, _ God-” _

Arthur ducked back into cover to reload, heaving for breath, and that’s when he allowed himself to look. He couldn’t exactly make out what he was seeing at first, feeling so removed from his own body as he did, but then his eyes finally made out the finer details in the hazy gray and blue and black and red mass they were fighting so hard not to focus on, and-

Time… slowed. Bullets became lazy in the air. Sparks lingered like fireworks. Dust bellowed in groggy storms.

All the noise around him… quieted. Voices and screams grew muffled and removed. Gunfire faded to a distant roar.

Hosea’s eyes were wide and wild, tears sitting in them unattended. They were crazed. Glassy, and distant.

Gone.

He was half-folded over Dutch, cradling him to his chest, one hand harshly clawed over Dutch’s ribs while the other one cradled the back of his head, fisted into dark slicked hair, matted with blood. A bloody hand-print sat on his cheek, left from Dutch’s hand, now laying in an ever-growing scarlet pool.

Dutch laid completely slack in Hosea’s hold. Limp. Limper than even the deepest sleep. Still. No shivering. No struggles for breath. No nothing.

And his eyes…

They were open.

But there was nothing there anymore.

And the sight of  _ Dutch _ \- always so full of life, always overflowing with energy, always moving, always speaking impossible things and impossible promises, commanding the air of whatever space he entered, always radiating warmth or burning with fiery temper, an ever-blazing hearth, immortal, invincible, untouchable - reduced to nothing more than… a shell… a cold and empty hollow where the man’s soul once blazed… a  _ body _ , no different than the legions of meat he’d picked his way through after any other firefight _ … _

...was a sight that he would carry to his grave. 

-~-~-

**_December, 1899_ **

Arthur frowned down at his journal and took a deep breath, setting his pencil down to rub at his eyes and then lazily scrub at his face.

He’d sketched the view of Dutch’s body on the street from his sniper’s perch on the roof of the next building. The pencil smudges on the paper made it barely recognizable - the scale too small for him to add any identifying details. It mostly just looked like a dark mass, splayed out in a messy pool of shading and cross-hatched cobblestones. 

He wondered, idly, how much it had decayed those past five months. What was six feet under the ground in that overlook in the Heartlands? Was it a skeleton? Did he still have his moustache?

Arthur slowly closed his journal and closed his eyes, bowing his spine to sit slumped in his bed. After a short while, he drifted his eyes open again to frown out the window.

Denver was preparing itself for the Christmas season. Garlands were being hung around houses, wreaths were being hung on doors, and huge red ribbons were being tied around all the lampposts. The mood of all their neighbors seemed to have heightened - folk were smiling as they rode by on their horses or their wagons, calling out to each other in warm greeting instead of ignoring each other or barking at folk to get out of the way. Even the children seemed more happy than usual - Arthur heard happy playful squeals at least once a day as a gaggle played in the snow a block or two away, carried by the cool breeze that felt more like spring than like winter.

There was a father with two boys walking down the street, holding the hand of the younger with an arm slung around the shoulders of the older. All three were talking about something, their laughter ringing through the air. Suddenly the older one jumped on the father, knocking his hat off, which he promptly stole and began running off with. The man sicced the younger boy on him, tiny legs pounding the snow with windmilling arms, and the man pointed and bellowed a dramatic order before dissolving into deep belly-laughter. His black hair and thick moustache were striking.

_ I tell you, my boy, this time next year, we'll all be working on our very own ranch right here in Montana, _ Dutch had crooned around this time last year.  _ No more eating slop, no more having to hunt to feed over twenty people, no more getting shot - how's that for a present, eh?  _

And there it was.

The bitterness.

He could scarcely remember Dutch without a following well of bitterness and anger. He hated himself for it - swore he'd released it all over the man's grave. Was even fairly certain he was done grieving for the man.

If he'd learned one thing while in Denver, however, it was that nothing seemed to be  _ linear. _

And so here he was. Back at square one. Venom sitting thick and heavy on the tip of his tongue every time he looked at Dutch in his photograph, all while his mind replayed soft memories of Dutch pressing parcels wrapped in brown paper and fancy ribbons tied into bows into his hands with a  _ Happy birthday, son _ or  _ Merry Christmas, Arthur! _

Arthur both ached deep and terrible with every fiber of his being to be able to exchange a warm smile with the man and to feel his hand on his shoulder, and also to snap  _ Shove it up your ass. _

Furiously blinking away the mist in his eyes, he turned his head with a huff to look at his clock, mostly as something to do, then stiffened when he saw it was five minutes till noon.

Hosea was supposed to have shared a game of chess with him two hours ago after cleaning up after breakfast. He was also supposed to bring up milk and lunch any minute.

Arthur strained to hear any noises coming from downstairs, but only heard dead silence. Lead began to grow in his stomach as he looked out the window to the horse shed and spotted The Count snoozing fitfully in his blanket. 

"What the hell…?" he muttered, warily pushing himself to the edge of the bed and uneasily heaving himself up onto his feet with a strained rattle from his lungs. He swayed for a minute as he waited for the room to stop spinning, then steadied himself with a deep grunt before shuffling off towards the stairs, patting a wary hand along the wall as he went. When he reached the top of the stairs, he looked down at the main floor and called out, "Hosea?"

No response. 

"Come on, old man," Arthur muttered, gripping tight onto the railing to shakily make his way down the stairs. 

When he emerged out the corner of the stairwell, he finally saw Hosea standing in the kitchen in front of the wash basin, still full of water and the dishes from breakfast. Hosea, for his part, still had his sleeves rolled up for the washing, his hands submerged in the water as he stood stock still, staring blankly out the window, barely seeming to even breathe.

"Hosea?" Arthur prompted again, softly.

No response.

With a long, wary sigh, Arthur tiredly walked closer to the man and touched his shoulder. “Hosea.”

Hosea twitched, then slowly blinked. He shifted his weight slightly before finally swivelling his head to look at Arthur, his eyes dull and glassy. “...Huh?”

Arthur’s brow furrowed in worry. “Have you been down here like this for  _ four hours?” _

“What?” Hosea said faintly, finally looking around the kitchen - at the high noon sun, at his horrifically wrinkled and pruned hands once he pulled them out of the water. “Ah, shit.  _ Shit.” _

Hosea immediately moved to finish washing the last few dishes, shucking them onto the counter to dry with a clatter before wringing his hands dry on the dish towel, his expression tightly pinched. “Damn. Damn it all to Hell. I’m sorry, dear boy.”

“You okay…?” Arthur prompted gingerly, watching Hosea stiffly stagger around the kitchen, slamming a loaf of bread onto the table with a jar of mustard and cans of corned beef.

Hosea let out a humorless chuckle. “Does any okay man stare at nothing for four hours?” he drawled, hurriedly assembling a couple corned beef sandwiches.

“What’s got into ya?” Arthur asked, slowly shuffling off to sit down at the dining room table, making sure that he kept his voice soft lest it carry any accusation.

“Oh, I don’t know,” Hosea muttered darkly, harshly prying open a can with a knife like it was his worst enemy. “Lot on my mind, I suppose.”

Arthur frowned at him for a long minute. “M’sorry.”

Hosea slammed the knife deep into the wood with a violent  _ thunk, _ making Arthur jump. The man braced himself on the edge and bowed his spine, hanging his head so Arthur couldn’t see his face. “It’s nothing you did,” Hosea said lowly, a faint tremor in his voice.

“You wanna…” Arthur began, then bit his tongue, knowing both of their inclinations. He sighed. “Talk to me,” he ordered. 

He watched as Hosea took three deep breaths, then scrubbed his wrist over his eyes. He grabbed the two sandwiches - without any plates - and set them down on the wood of the dining room table, then grabbed two glasses and filled them with milk from the ice box. He returned, setting one in front of Arthur and one at his own place before sitting down heavily. Arthur watched him carefully, refusing to eat or drink until the man started talking.

Hosea glanced at him, catching onto what he was doing. With a low, uneasy noise, he scrubbed a hand over his weathered face, pulling at the bags under his eyes. “I…” he started uneasily, then huffed. He slowly looked around their house with pursed lips, and Arthur noticed that his eyes were bloodshot. He cleared his throat. “I just wish… Heh. I wish a lot of things.” He picked up his sandwich, inspected it, then set it back down. 

When it became clear that nothing more was coming, Arthur warily picked up his sandwich and prompted, “What kinda things?” before taking a bite, then mumbling, “This’s good, thank ya.”

Hosea blinked at him, then took a bite of his own sandwich. He chewed slowly, then swallowed, seeming to ponder his words as Arthur continued to eat. “I wish I could rewind time, mostly,” he said thickly.

Arthur huffed, finished chewing, then swallowed. “Ain’t no use thinkin’ like that,” he murmured. “You taught me that much.”

Hosea hummed. “Wouldn’t be the first time I’d be a hypocrite.”

“‘Sea,” Arthur pressed, voice firm yet tired. “What’s eatin’ ya? C’mon, now.”

Tears pricked Hosea’s eyes as he took another bite of his sandwich. They sat in silence as they both chewed, swallowed, and chased down their mouthfuls with sips of milk. When Arthur took another bite, Hosea rolled his neck before rubbing at it, a weight dragging the lids of his eyes down while the lines in his face deepened. “I always thought that the thing that made it all go wrong was that goddamn bank robbery in Saint Denis,” he said harshly, a sharp and cold bitterness coloring his voice. “But lately I’ve been thinking I really became the true fool with the whole Grays and Braithewaites business. I underestimated both of those damnable plantation legacy sons of bitches as back-brained inbred hicks and got Sean killed for it, drew the attention of the Pinkertons with the noise we were making, damn nearly got Jack killed, and if we didn’t need to get run into Saint Denis then you never would’ve-” Hosea made a broken gesture towards Arthur and Arthur clenched his jaw, his eyes stinging “-and Hell, me not vetoing Strauss’s sickening loan shark business, which started  _ this  _ whole mess, and- and-  _ heh, _ and- I’m just coming to realize with ever-expanding  _ clarity  _ that I’ve been making a whole Hell of a lot of bad goddamn calls and Sean’s paid for them, Kieran’s paid for them, Jack and John and Abigail paid for them, you’ve paid for them, Dutch paid for them, but never  _ me.”  _ He heaved a breath and shakingly raised his glass of milk to take a long drink.

Arthur looked him up and down, his gaze sharpening to a glare. “I think you’re underestimating exactly how much of all this is on Dutch.”

Hosea swallowed and let out a harsh huff, shaking his head as he curtly set the glass down. “Oh, I know,” he said sharply. “My partner in crime through and through. The both of us ever-complicit bastards.”

_ “You _ didn’t throw away California,” Arthur insisted with a growl, tapping a finger harshly on the table.  _ “You _ didn’t throw away Montana.  _ You _ didn’t go after that ferry in Blackwater.  _ You _ didn't rob Cornwall's train.  _ You _ didn’t take out Bronte and announce to the entire goddamn state of Lemoyne that we were about to pull something big.  _ You  _ never got on my ass if I didn’t go collect Strauss’s debts.  _ He did. _ He did  _ all of it. _ If he never  _ ruined everything, _ then we and Sean and Jenny and Davey and Mac would be decorating our ranch in Holly with him and drinkin’ goddamn eggnog without me spittin’ blood in it.”

“How highly you must think of me and how lowly you must think of him,” Hosea said, voice flat and hollow, staring down at the table.

"You've always put yourself down too much and forgiven him too easily," Arthur said roughly.

Hosea's mouth twitched upwards at a twisted angle. "And you've always ignored my own sins to paint me as a Saint, as if I ain't an equal sinner."

"None of us were ever Saints," Arthur countered. "I ain't sayin' you're perfect. I'm saying you're a  _ human being." _

"Then what does that make Dutch?" Hosea prompted sharply.

"I don't know. Something else."

_ "Dead _ is what he is," Hosea hissed.

"Best goddamn thing he ever did," Arthur snapped.

Hosea's eyes widened and his pupils shrunk to small, nigh manic dots, and Arthur instantly knew he crossed a line. 

All at once, Hosea rose from the table and walked off to the corner of the room, looking out their bay window, his hands on his hips. Arthur slowly set down his sandwich, curling into himself as he paled, ducking his head and rubbing his arm.

Silence hung thick and heavy in the dim light of their house, and if it weren't for all the open windows, the air would have been suffocating. The joyful noises drifting into the triggerwire tense air of the room was enough to make Arthur nauseous.

There was no joy here.

"You know… what one of the things I hate most about myself is?" Hosea asked, his voice quiet and monotone. "Outside of not tearing apart limb from limb every man who ever hurt you, that is."

Arthur slowly curled his hands into fists. He waited.

"The fact that Dutch counts amongst them," he said, voice strangled and hoarse. "That I'm…  _ glad… _ he's not  _ here." _

The nausea in Arthur's stomach sharpened as tears stung his eyes.

"You know, I…" Hosea wheezed out a cruel laugh. "It's a funny thing. You know, I was always supposed to die first? I had a decade on him, how could I not? It's the natural order of things. But Hell if I ever brought that law of nature up around  _ him. _ Like never uttering it would mean it would never come to pass. Like if he guilt-tripped or screamed at me enough then I'd become immortal. Like dying would somehow be some kind of personal slight against him. He wouldn't even  _ think _ about it. It got to the point some nights where I… where I'd pray to whatever was listening that he'd go before me." He finally looked over his shoulder, tears brimming in his eyes. "Because I didn't trust what he'd do if I wasn't there. That things would be better if it was I who bore that loss. ...How goddamn horrible is that?"

"'Sea…" Arthur said softly.

"And now here we are," Hosea continued, slowly beginning to walk around the room, looking at all the barren and empty walls and floorspace and shelves, save solely for Arthur's first painting above the fireplace and the picture of them both laughing on the mantle. "Our 'House in the West.' This was always  _ his _ dream, remember? I never asked anything like this from him. Being an outlaw was everything he was. I’d never ask him to change himself so fundamentally. But it was  _ him  _ who did it. Who started this push. He took my hands and he said, ‘Hosea, I’m getting us out of this, because this - this family we’ve built - is enough. Waking up to this is enough.’” Tears slipped down Hosea’s cheeks as he continued to pace, staring at the walls. “We would never be enough for him,” he croaked. “But it was a nice dream. I indulged it. For a decade. He  _ tried. _ He did. In the beginning.” Hosea hitched a breath and came to a stop, back in front of the bay window, where he scrubbed at his cheeks. 

Arthur felt a tear of his own slip down his cheek.

"But Lord, I can just imagine him here with us now," Hosea said through a bitter chuckle, half-turning to face Arthur. "Him? 'Laying low' in this house? Working a job? Knowing you have tuberculosis? Knowing what we- what we  _ put you through?" _ he finished, his voice strained and cracking.  _ "Ha. _ He'd've brought the law on us thrice over, made us have to flee the whole damn city if not the whole  _ state, _ and that's if he wasn't too busy blaming me or blaming  _ you _ for the shit you're going through because  _ God forbid _ he ever take responsibility for his own  _ mistakes, _ and that's if he wouldn't have left us and been halfway to Timbuk-fucking- _ to!" _

Hosea's eyes were narrowed and pained and his tears were coming in steady, silent streams. He turned away again, hugging himself, and Arthur slowly rose to his feet, walking across the floor to hug Hosea from behind and bury his face in the man's shoulder. Hosea let out a sob.

"You know why I don't decorate the house?" Hosea asked weakly, shuddering with another suppressed sob. Arthur squeezed him tighter. When Hosea next spoke, his voice was loud and tortured. "Because he's supposed to  _ be here." _

Another sob tore from Hosea's throat and suddenly the man's legs were buckling. Working together, they both sank down to the floor while avoiding injury, Arthur still pressed against Hosea's back while Hosea wept, quaking underneath him.

"I'm sorry," Arthur said quietly. "I'm sorry, I'm sorry. I shouldn't have said anything."

"Oh shut up," Hosea croaked. "You're allowed to be angry at him. If I wished death upon him, so can you."

"We-" Arthur choked, then shook his head, burrowing further into Hosea's back. "We didn't wish death on him. Neither of us. And I- I didn't mean- I didn't mean I'm glad he's dead earlier. I'm  _ not. _ I meant th- I meant- I meant that I'm glad that he saved you."

Hosea reached up and squeezed his arm. "How much bitterness and hatred did we let grow in ourselves if I say that I'm surprised he had it in him?" he wept.

Arthur blinked out a few more tears. "It wasn't us who changed," he whispered.

Hosea wheezed out a harsh sound. "No, no… he was the only one who  _ didn't _ change. He was  _ stuck, _ Arthur. He was  _ stuck. _ Set in his ways and running away from change. He was always running away from change. Running away or trying to keep us stagnant by any means necessary."

They both sat in silence for a long while as Hosea forcibly regained control of his breathing and composure, leaving them both to slowly and silently cry where they sat, Arthur's arms wrapped around Hosea's chest while Hosea slowly rubbed his thumb along Arthur's elbow. 

"Why was he like that...? Near the end?" Arthur asked quietly. "...Mean?"

Hosea thought over the question for a long while. Eventually, he said, "He'd have these - cycles. Ever since the beginning he'd have these cycles. He was a man of cycles and circles. There'd be times where… where he'd be as sweet and docile as a newborn lamb. And times where he was this unholy terror, like he was God's greatest gift to man, invincible and always right. He'd… say things.  _ Cruel _ things. And then, later - maybe a day, maybe a month, maybe a year - he'd apologize, make some excuse, swear never to do it again, get all extra sweet and nice for a while before doing the same shit all over again." He sighed heavily and closed his eyes. “With every…  _ catastrophe, _ his behavior got worse, and the frequency got narrower. It used to mostly be directed at me, and that I could take, but then he…” Hosea bit his lip.

Arthur frowned, then slowly, warily ventured, "I never forgave him for how he treated you and Bessie before y'all left."

Hosea opened his eyes, his expression twisting in pain. “I never forgave him fully neither. For Bessie’s sake, if not for me - though  _ she  _ forgave him, angel that she was.” He tightened his hold around Arthur’s elbow. “After all those…  _ messes  _ those following three years, he… he paid for it. He bled for it well enough. Fell at my feet and begged for forgiveness. And I couldn’t bear to see him punish himself anymore, so I told him, let’s just  _ move on… _ just  _ do your best. _ And he- he did. He  _ did. He did... _ And for so many years he was just  _ lovely... _ Until he wasn’t.” Hosea swallowed, thickly. “...If I had known he was starting up the same shit with John I would have left him black and blue. And knowing it now, I  _ cannot - will not _ \- ever forgive him for that. No matter how scared that son of a bitch was." Arthur made a low noise of agreement. 

Cheery greetings and laughter drifted in from outside. Both men turned their heads and frowned in its direction. 

"I loved him," Hosea croaked.

"So did I," Arthur murmured.

"No, Arthur, I-" and at that, Hosea shifted in Arthur's hold, getting him to let go so that Hosea could turn to face him. "I  _ loved _ him. I-... was  _ in love _ with him."

Arthur's eyes widened as he searched Hosea's face. He watched as all the light seemed to fade out of the man, his eyes going dark and dull. "Oh, Hosea…"

In a heartbeat, he was hugging Hosea again, his hands fisted into the back of his shirt. Hosea sat relaxed in his hold, arms limp at his sides as he stared blankly over Arthur’s shoulder, so still that it made anxiety churn uneasily in his veins.

“The night before the bank robbery, you know what he told me...?” Hosea murmured in a quiet monotone. “He said ‘You make me want to change’... And when he was dying in my arms, there wasn’t a drop of fear in him... He wasn’t scared... He was  _ smiling... _ Smiling up at me like I was… Like he...”

Arthur didn’t know what to feel. He didn’t know what to do. And he sure as hell didn’t know what to say.

“...But none of that matters now,” Hosea said lowly, his voice cold and blank and hard. He gave Arthur a firm pat on the back, then used his shoulders to push himself up with a quiet grunt and long chain of concerning  _ cracks. _ The man barely even winced. “He’s dead. For good or ill. And there ain’t shit I can do about it, but I can keep  _ you _ alive, so let’s finish off those sandwiches, c’mon.” He extended a hand to help Arthur up, and Arthur furrowed his brow at it, looking up at Hosea in concern before taking it and allowing himself to be helped up.

With heavy steps - and many worried glances from Arthur - they both moved back to the table and sat down, mechanically finishing off the rest of their meal in silence.

"I think I need a lie down," Hosea said afterwards, the bags under his eyes looking exceptionally dark. "And you oughta get back to bed yourself."

Arthur frowned at him as he watched the man stand up, then sighed and forced a smile on himself as he allowed Hosea to help him up and brace his weight. They started off towards the stairs, and Arthur injected fake cheer into his voice to ask, "So, what do you want for your birthday?"

Hosea's expression didn't change. "Eh, it ain't anything worth celebrating. I don't want anything done. Just you alive is enough."

Arthur opened his mouth, then shut it with a click as they began ascending the steps, one step at a time. All the memories of Hosea's past birthdays filtered through his mind - of Miss Grimshaw waking him up by bringing him a cup of coffee and a kiss to the temple, of long hunting trips with he and John (Hosea was always happiest when Arthur or John made the kill), of Tilly kissing him on the cheek in the light of matches stuck into a smattering of biscuits, of Dutch always tugging the man away either behind the closed flaps of his tent or out of camp entirely at the end of the day, the both of them grinning and giggling like a couple of boys leading an adventure novel.

"What about Christmas?" Arthur tried.

Hosea snorted. "Jews don't celebrate Christmas."

"Naw, but our family does."  _ Always has. _ "You really not gonna get lil' Jack any presents when we get back to them all?"

He earned the hard-won victory of a small smile on Hosea's face as they slowly heaved their way up another couple steps. "Fair point." It faded quickly. 

When they were three-fourths of the way up the stairs, Arthur patted Hosea's arm to signal he needed to catch his breath. Hosea stopped immediately and propped Arthur up against the wall, and when Arthur finally recollected himself, he used his newfound air to say "We could include Albert this year, he ain't got nobody to spend Christmas with here, and maybe we could dec-"

"Dear boy, can we not talk about this right now?" Hosea said, voice broken and quiet.

"Sure," Arthur replied, matching Hosea's tone as he dropped his forced cheer.

\--

The days were hard. The nights were harder.

Hosea continued to drift off into periods of dead-eyed melancholy - whether in the form of Arthur constantly having to squeeze his knee to get him to make a move in dominos or cards, not turning a page in his book for several hours, or appearing frozen in time with various household tasks left half-finished in his hands, everything from laundry to chopping wood - and have frequent "lie downs," laying himself flat on the floor of his bedroom with his eyes closed or curled onto his side under the covers with his face hidden. Arthur, for his part, endlessly wrestled with his own mind - he no longer felt suffocated under the weight of his attacker, but his mind instead was left to meander through a plethora of other griefs and anxieties on top of the occasional flashbacks of that shack. He regretted not having been a domestic presence to Isaac and Eliza, to be able to have seen his son grow up and share so many more Christmases with him, even though he  _ knew  _ it wasn’t his fault, even though he  _ knew  _ Eliza didn’t want him living with her. He feared for the gang, wondering constantly if they all made it to Canada okay, if they were able to find each other or, if not, were able to take care of themselves and stay safe - or if any of them were killed, even though he  _ knew  _ they were competent and capable. He worried over Hosea, at how shaken and wary and burned out the man was becoming, at how he seemed to be turning into some kind of automaton. He anxiously prayed for his own health, wanting nothing more than to return to his peak, red-cheeked and strong, able to slap the man on the back, saddle up their horses, and start a mad trek to Canada to reunite with the inevitable joys of their family - rather than the hollow walls of that house that could never feel like a home. Not with the sorrow it held in its shadows, and not with the yawning void of its halls, too empty and too quiet.

At night, Arthur continued to wake up from nightmares - while they were no longer a nightly occurrence, they were horrific, ugly amalgamations of trauma, cobbled together from scraps of blood-splattered floorboards and yellowed teeth and Dutch’s rotted corpse. Half the times he woke up, Hosea’s light was still on, the man curled into himself in the same position he’d been in when he first laid down. Other times, when Arthur had taken too long to drift off to sleep, he heard faint, soft, hitching breaths coming from the darkness of Hosea’s room. The sound brought tears of his own to his eyes, and his gaze always drifted to that photo of the three of them hanging above the corner of his bed.

One night, he untacked the photo from the wall and laid it face down on his night-stand, pinned under his lantern, before rising to shuffle to Hosea’s room under the guise of a nightmare.

Hosea noticed it immediately upon serving Arthur breakfast the next morning, placed back in his own bed after the morning outhouse run and washing. The man gave it a sad frown as Arthur dug into his eggs, determined to purge the tuberculosis from his system and regain his lost weight with all the power spite had to offer him.

“Arthur,” Hosea sighed tiredly, “why did you take our picture down?”

Arthur finished chewing and swallowed, furrowing his brow down at the tray. He almost let out a low, frustrated noise at his knee-jerk impulse to keep up their old dance - to deny and bury and avoid until the impossible outcome of everything simply going away came to pass. He was sick and tired of that dance. He hated that dance. And the months had been far too cruel and grueling, and he’d worked too hard to gain hard-won wisdom, to run away from the thorns in his side anymore. The both of them needed to nip this in the bud before it got worse.

“I’m mad as hell at myself that I… am…  _ angry, _ at Dutch,” Arthur muttered quietly. He reluctantly looked up at Hosea. “For what exactly I can’t even really parse out. I don’t want to be angry at him. I thought I was past it.” He tapped his fork harshly against the tray, then flinched back at the noise. “And I feel like I’m stressing you out because of it.”

Hosea squinted at him, then groggily blinked down at his own eggs, loading up his fork. A hollow chuckle rolled out of his throat. “I’ve been hating myself for loving him.” He popped the eggs into his mouth. “Feel like I’m betraying you and John for it.”

Arthur huffed. "So was all that talk about it being okay to both hate and love him just you blowing smoke?"

"It is okay for you and John and Tilly and all the rest. It's different for me."

“How the Hell is it different for you?” Arthur challenged.

Hosea swallowed and loaded up another forkful. “Why are you angry at him?” Hosea countered, glancing up at him as he took another bite, still sporting that dull, hollow-eyed gaze.

“I told you, I don’t -  _ know.” _ Arthur ducked his gaze and busied himself with eating as his brow furrowed.

Hosea huffed, then swallowed. “When we buried him, you said he made you feel the same as your father did.”

Arthur froze. 

Both men were on the surface of his mind, dredged up from whatever depths they’d both been buried in till recently. Memories flooded to him easily, filtering over his vision with pale gray skies and muddy ground, of dark rooms with jittering shadows on the walls from rain hitting the windows.

_ Stop your cryin'! _ Lyle had snapped at one point, voice high and howling.  _ You ain’t gonna get me to stop with that act. I told you to stay! Put! And  _ don’t  _ talk to strangers!  _ Look at me when I’m talking to you, boy! _ You coulda fucked up everything I had going, and I thought I could trust you to just stand still and not fuck it up, but it looks like I can't even do that!  _ Augh, _ useless fucking child! C’MERE! _

_ I’m sorry, Sir!  _ Arthur had cried, voice panicked and split, only to get throttled for his efforts.

_ After everything I’ve ever done for you, Arthur, I’d expect you to have my back, _ Dutch had told him at one point, voice low and bitter.  _ Yet you seem to keep siding against me! Now I am  _ trying _ to make things work, but I can’t rightly do that if I’m not given  _ permission  _ to get us out of this mess. Now I'm used to Hosea assuming the worst of me, but when you do it? That  _ hurts, _ son. I thought I could count on you, at least, of all people, but it looks like I can't even do that.  _

_ I'm sorry, Sir, _ Arthur had murmured, voice barely above a whisper.

Dutch had frozen up and stiffened, his breath changing. He side-eyed Arthur for a long moment, looking him up and down, before his face scrunched up and his eyes narrowed.  _ Guilt-tripping does not become you, Arthur. _

A flood of other shards of memories trickled through his mind, Lyle’s and Dutch’s dueling voices ringing through his ears.

_ You're gonna get me killed one of these days, boy. I just know it.  _ I won't, Sir!  _ Sure. _

_I expect you’ll betray me in the end, Arthur._ _You’re the_ ** _type._** That so? _You tell me..._

_ I'm the one who puts clothes on your back, puts food in your stomach, and keeps you safe, so I don't want to hear any damn whining. Children are meant to be seen, not heard.  _ B-b-but Pa, I- _ 'B-b-but Pa, I~' Speak again and I'll pop you in the mouth. _

_ Have some god damn FAITH! I am bending over backwards to make a future for US! _ I know, but…  _ ‘BUT, but,  _ BUT…’  _ When did you become so small-minded?! _

A hand firmly kneading his bicep pulled him out of his reverie as he flinched, his vision swimming back into focus to show Hosea's exhausted face.

Arthur simply clenched his jaw and loaded up his fork again, mechanically eating as he intently stared down at his plate. Hosea let go of him to do the same. After a long minute, when the eggs were finally all gone, Arthur picked up a biscuit and sponged up the grease.

"He never hit me," he muttered, his voice dull, like reciting a mantra. "Worst words can do is hurt your feelings. It could've been far worse."

Hosea critically looked him up and down. "That how you see it about the things he said to me and John?"

"No," Arthur said immediately, looking up at him, his mouth twisting into a frustrated frown. He bit back a grunt from low in his throat at Hosea's trick.

Hosea simply quirked an eyebrow instead of ordering Arthur to apply the same logic to himself. He already did. 

"So what, then?" Arthur spat, his eyes stinging as anger trickled up his spine. "Turns out Dutch was a raging asshole. Turns out he made me feel like shit. Turns out I was scared of him- not scared that he’d hit me but that he’d stop loving me if I didn’t say ‘How high?’ when he told me to jump- So what now? Huh?!" He threw his biscuit back down onto the plate with a clatter. "Dragging all this shit back out around goddamn Christmas?! What's the point?!"

Hosea observed him with a perfectly neutral expression. "I believe it was  _ you _ yesterday speaking at  _ me _ who kept insisting Dutch is the reason things have gotten this bad."

Arthur would have flung his plate across the room if he'd known Hosea wouldn't have to clean it up. Instead, he scrubbed his hands over his face and then wrung them. His vision swam with tears, but he furiously blinked them back. His voice cracked and split when he said, furiously gesturing, "It ain't  _ fair _ that you keep putting all the blame on yourself instead of him, it ain't  _ fair _ that he put everything on you, it ain't  _ fair _ that he's not here to  _ help  _ and it ain't  _ fair _ that he-  _ left us-!" _

He slammed his fist down on his night-stand with a violent  _ WHUD  _ and hid his face in his hands, hot tears slipping down his cheeks as he hitched breaths through bared teeth, biting back the scratching coughs trying to tickle his lungs as he shook.

He heard rather than felt Hosea stand up and make his way to the head of the bed. He leaned towards the man, just slightly, just enough, and Hosea’s arms were wrapping around him - he instantly turned into the man and hugged him back as tightly as he was hugging him, breathing unevenly as he cried.

Hosea absently caressed a hand through his hair and otherwise remained perfectly still, his muscles slack and relaxed like before. Arthur could tell without seeing that the man’s eyes were dry and blank.

Arthur tucked his nose into Hosea’s shoulder. “It ain’t fair that he never got to even  _ try _ to change,” he whispered. “That we never got to say  _ goodbye.” _

A long few seconds passed.

Hosea broke apart in his arms.

\--

_ Hosea's birthday is tomorrow. I wish I could say that was a good thing, but it can’t escape either of our notice that our birthdays this year are the first ones without Dutch. That this Christmas will be our first without Dutch. That all of this sets into stone that Dutch will never be part of our lives again, outside of memories that seem too full of darkness. _

_ Everything has happened so fast this year. It’s as if one second, Dutch was still here, and the family was still together, and then I blinked and it all fell apart. I remember writing when we first moved into this house that hardly anything feels real. It still doesn’t feel real. _

_ I  _ ~~_ envy  _ ~~ _ would envy Hosea for having a whole theater production and list of chores to keep his mind off this fact, but I don’t think he is keeping his mind off it. He’s been sleeping in late into the morning to where even I wake up before him. He still goes blank and forgets what he was doing. He’s been wandering in and out of rooms, and I think his pain is getting to him, because he keeps limping and savoring his back and hands. I keep catching him crying off and on through the days. Hell, I keep catching  _ _ myself  _ _ crying off and on. Sleep for both of us comes uneasily and then overstays its welcome. _

_ We’ve been sharing a bed more often than not, even without the nightmares, for me  _ _ or _ _ him. All our lives, we’ve slept in close quarters with everyone else. This time of year has always been full of their cheerful sounds, and I’d exchange this warm house for sleeping in a bedroll under the sky surrounded by the others in a heartbeat. Instead, this house just feels far too big and far too empty for just us two lonely souls. Sleeping next to Hosea lets me pretend it’s the good old days again, and I’m a boy, and we’re just sharing a tent in winter and Dutch is just rolled over somewhere behind me. _

_ I genuinely do not know how Dutch would act if he were here. I don’t know if things would be better or worse or… _

**_I hate Micah._ ** _ If it weren’t for that dirty, filthy, traitorous  _ _ rat, _ _ Dutch never would have gone after that ferry in Blackwater, and Hosea and I could’ve pulled our realty hustle, and we all could be settled on a ranch in West Elizabeth right now, I wouldn’t be sick, Hosea would be happy, and Dutch _

~~_ Hosea and I _ ~~ _ Why couldn’t Dutch have just listened? To either of us? He had dozens of chances to just  _ _ listen _ _.  _ ~~_ If he _ ~~ _ But he didn’t. Did he not love us enough? Did he just not care? Was he really so in love with chasing money and killing folk that he’d leave us behind? _

_ Every time I miss him I get angry. Like leaving us was his choice. In a way, I guess it was. A choice. But a choice made out of love. _

_ I would give almost anything to just be able to talk with him again. _

Arthur’s vision blurred too much to keep writing, so he slowly, warily set his pencil down and hitched a breath, then another, closing his journal to shield the pages from his tears as he softly broke down.

He sniffled and dragged in a shuddering breath, wiping away his tears. He blinked hard to bring his room back into focus, cast in shadow and dim orange light from his lantern, clouds choking the sky and shielding the moon from looking down at the Earth. He looked aside to squint at his alarm clock and frowned at the late hour, his brow furrowing.

Hosea was usually back from the theater by now.

After absently twiddling his thumbs for a long minute, he sighed and shook his head, laying down to try and sleep.

He poked his head out of the covers a couple hours later and squinted. The house was dark, silent, and still, and when he leaned around to peer out the window at the horse shed, he saw only Killer's white sickle - The Count's shock of white was still missing. 

"C'mon, Hosea…" he murmured, pushing himself to sit up with a strained wheeze. 

With halting movements, he pushed himself up and out of bed, looking around his room for any possible notes. Finding none, he grabbed his shawl and threw it around his shoulders before sleepily shuffling out of his room and across the hall to lean against Hosea's doorway, trying to ignore the screaming in the back of his mind that Hosea was dead in a gutter somewhere.

Lord knew Hosea hadn't worked himself up into a panic each time Arthur was gone from camp for longer than normal.

...That was mostly Dutch's schtick.

He sure wished he could send someone to track Hosea down and check on him now, like his mentor did for him. 

“Can’t see a damn thing…” he muttered, stepping slowly towards the lamp on the bedside table. He opened Hosea’s nightstand and fumbled around in the darkness for the matches, finally managing to pull out the box and remove one, striking it to form a small, fragile flame of gold that meekly whispered light to his bleak surroundings, trembling against the cold breeze that gushed through the open windows. He tossed the matchbox back into the drawer and drew up the glass of the lantern, lighting the wick before letting the glass lower once more. Another breeze blew the match out, but it was no matter - the room gently blinked awake in the soft warm hues of fire, revealing its bare and barren walls, its empty floor, and empty bed, still unmade from when they’d both dragged themselves out of the covers that morning.

Hosea’s sole possession sat staring at him from the nightstand, backlit by the warm light. Hosea, fifteen years younger, squinting at the camera with an awkward, rigid expression even as he leaned into the shoulder of Bessie, bright-eyed as ever with a soft, soothing smile, leaning into him right back.

Arthur slowly sat down on the edge of Hosea’s bed with a heavy sigh, then stiffened when he felt something tickle his foot. 

Drawing his feet up, he peered over the edge of the bed to the floor, where he saw a piece of paper poking out from the shadows beneath the bed.

“What do we have here…?” Arthur murmured, shifting off the mattress to kneel down and retrieve it.

Or, half of it. It was a paper that had been torn in half, and peering into the darkness, he spotted its twin a little ways further under the bed. With a bit of reaching, he dragged it back over to him, then hoisted himself back up on the mattress and the lantern light, holding up the paper to be illuminated in warmth rather than the cold grave of the floor.

His heart dropped as he immediately recognized Dutch’s handwriting.

“You still… had this…?” he whispered, quickly rearranging the pieces to where they matched, pressing their torn edges together to reunite the words with their lost partners with only faintly shivering hands. 

Whole again, he could see how well-loved the letter was, its texture so soft and overused from being handled that it almost felt like fabric, laying limply over his fingers. The paper had yellowed considerably from humidity and sunlight, some of its words warped slightly from old tear stains, and all across its expanse it bore a cacophony of faint criss-crossed creases - the remnants of being wadded up and then lovingly smoothed out over and over. 

“Oh, Hosea…” Arthur groaned quietly, his eyes stinging. 

_ My dear Hosea, _ sat staring up at him like an accusation or a mockery. He understood with painful clarity why Hosea had mutilated the letter so, especially after confessing to Arthur that he was in love with the man - but damn if it didn’t feel like betrayal.

This was the last piece of Dutch, outside of The Count, that either of them  _ had. _

“You damned fool,” he muttered, his voice splitting and cracking as he blinked yet more moisture out of his eyes. Before he properly knew it, his eyes were sliding down the letter, reading through all of Dutch’s words, summoning back his voice.

He quickly stilled his gaze at one line in particular. A line that he’d fervently memorized from when he first read it over the man’s grave, a line that, even now, he read over and over.

_ That I love Arthur as my friend, my brother, my own son, and that I wish I could find the words to connect with him, for he is a gift to my life. _

Every bitter and painful memory of the man suddenly parted to make way for all of his most favorite and loving memories of his  _ father figure. _

_ I had fun with you today. Be well. You’re… Well… I was gonna say you’re like a son to me… But you’re more than that. _

_ I think... I-- I mean, we... are gonna be okay! I know-- I always know... whenever I got... you two by my side... things are gonna be just fine. _

_ You was always special to me. All these years… All these things we done… Good things… Bad things… All these people we seen passed on… You was always special. _

_ There he is, my favorite son! The best man amongst us! _

_ Arthur, I… thank you. I always know I can trust you, but- more than that… Y-... You’re a good one. Y’hear? ...You’re a good one. Taking you in… might just’ve been the best thing I ever done. _

_ There you are! Where the hell were you?! I- I was worried half to death! You okay?! Talk to me, c’mon, we’re going for a walk- _

_ If I was back there lookin’ at him standing over you with that knife, knowing killin’ him would lead to  _ this? _ I’d do it all over again. Because no one.  _ Touches. _ My  _ family.

_ That is my  _ **son.**

_ I love you, my dear boy! Oh, how I love you.  _

So many memories flew past his mind full of countless visions of Dutch smiling, of the sound of his booming laughter, of the warmth of his embrace, of his smell of cologne and tobacco and clean linen, of the feeling of his fingers ruffling through his hair, of his steady presence at his back as he taught him how to work a horse or lasso or shoot or read, of how he’d read him to sleep to the words of Thoreau and Emerson when he was haunted by blood-splattered floorboards or let Arthur hide in his chest during stormy nights where his father was still too near and he felt oh so small-

He gasped out a sob and yet again had to set the paper aside to avoid being dripped on by his tears. 

The anger was back, thick and heavy in his chest, but he knew perfectly why he was feeling it. It wasn’t aimed at Dutch - not anymore, at least.

It was because Dutch…

wasn’t…

**_there._ **

And all at once, Arthur knew that he  _ could not _ \-  _ would not _ \- lose Hosea.

“Where  _ are you, _ old man?!” he ground out through clenched teeth, peering out the windows at the road, his hand still clenched around Dutch’s letter. He shuddered out a wet breath and felt a fresh wave of tears.

Dutch would know what to do.

Dutch could go out looking for him.

Dutch could-

Dutch-

Arthur sat on that bed and trembled, holding Dutch’s letter for he had no idea how long, feeling lost and helpless and scared - as scared as he’d been when he was a young boy, shut up in a shack as Hosea and Dutch went out to hunt desperately needed food, promising to return by sundown only to remain missing late into the night.

They both came back with a deer at dawn.

Arthur wanted with every desperate fibre of his being for them both to come back this time, too.

At a loss and powerless for anything else to do, he slowly laid down on the mattress, tucked the letter under the pillow, and dragged the covers over his shoulders, praying that Hosea was alive and safe and would return soon over and over until he finally faded away into sleep and gentle memories of Dutch sitting watch beside him with his hand in his hair, soothing him into dreams.

\--

As soon as Arthur processed that he was awake, he snapped upright.

The room was still empty, and a quick listen to the house returned only silence. He lunged out of bed and stumbled to the back window to look at the horse shed, only to once again be met with the lone sight of Killer - The Count nowhere to be seen. With a curse, he rushed across the hall to stumble into his own room and look at his alarm clock - eight-forty in the morning.

Something was wrong.

With sick adrenaline slithering through his veins and numbing the pain in his lungs, lending him strength in his limbs he didn’t have, he swiftly raided his dresser to clothe himself in his old work clothes, throwing on his winter coat and rushing as quickly down the stairs as he could, incensed with determination to go out and hunt Hosea down himself. He paused to catch his breath on the dining table through clenched teeth, and that’s when he finally saw it - Hosea’s brown trenchcoat atop The Count’s albino form, sloppily galloping down the road towards their house, the man himself listing dangerously to the side of his saddle.

Arthur threw open the front door and stormed onto the porch, fixing Hosea with a thunderous glare as the man pulled The Count up to the hitching post at the front of their house, still swaying uneasily. “Where the fuck you been?!” he snarled, still feeling his heartbeat pound in his temples. Hosea swung down out of the saddle and promptly fell backwards onto his ass in the snow, and Arthur’s anger was tempered just enough to feel a spike of concern. “Are you okay?! You hurt?!”

“I’m-” Hosea slurred, slowly pushing himself up to his hands and knees and pausing to reorient himself, “m’ _ fine.” _ He used a hand to drag himself upright by The Count’s stirrup, earning him a pair of pinned back ears and a thunderous glare from the stallion that almost held as much heat as Arthur’s. Hosea blinked blearily at Arthur and wheezed, “I- I’m sorry, m’boy, I didn’ mean for- I wanted t' come home sooner, I  _ promise.” _

“What the Hell happened out there?” Arthur asked, his anger and the force of his tone swiftly softening as he looked at the tension in the man’s expression and the redness of his eyes as he fumbled for his saddlebags. "Here, lemme help-"

"I've left you to fend for yourself quite enough, I got it," Hosea slurred, slinging the saddlebags over his shoulder and slowly walking towards the porch steps. "You go on upstairs."

"I ain't goin' nowhere till you tell me why you're all wobbly and where the hell you were," Arthur pressed, reaching out a hand to help Hosea up the stairs. "Thought you was  _ dead!" _

Hosea took Arthur's proferred hand, and when he finally pulled the man up even with him on the porch, he caught it.

The deep stench of alcohol.

Arthur stiffened and let go of him immediately. Hosea side-eyed him, his expression drawing tighter, before brushing past Arthur to walk inside.

Arthur followed him in, hot on his heels. "You're drunk," he hissed.

Hosea shot him a glare that swiftly broke into exhaustion as he leaned against the kitchen table. "Castmates found out my birthday was t'morrow - today - and took me out for drinks. An' once I got started I couldn't stop."

Arthur's brow pinched upwards and his anger broke once more. "That why you were gone so long?" he asked, strained. Hosea opened his mouth to answer when Arthur suddenly shook himself and growled "No hang on, then why are you still drunk  _ now? _ Why you only coming home  _ now?" _

Hosea grimaced and turned his back on him to rest his hands on the table and brace himself. "Don't worry about it."

"I damn well am gonna worry about it!"

_ "I have it under control!" _ Hosea snapped, turning his head to scowl at a point past Arthur's shoulder. "So please, can you just go back upstairs and  _ rest _ so I can-"

"What's in the bags?" Arthur growled. Hosea immediately whirled on him and backed away. "What's in the bags, Hosea?" he hissed as he stalked closer.

"None o' your business," Hosea slurred in response, lilting and bouncing off the counter as he continued to back away. "Medicine. Leave it alone, Arthur." 

Arthur darted forward and snatched the saddlebags off Hosea's shoulder, and it was an easy enough task to rebuff Hosea's scrabbling hands and shield the bags with his bulk as he threw them on the kitchen table with a loud clatter and the sharp ringing sound of glass tinkling against glass. He flung open the flaps and then pulled out bottle after bottle of alcohol, six total, all lined up on the wood like a firing squad.

When he next turned to Hosea, the man looked like he was standing on the executioner's block.

"...Listen-" Hosea started.

"I don't wanna hear it," Arthur said lowly, crossing his arms tightly over his chest and ticcing his chin towards the bottles. "That why you were gone? Huh? Went out drinkin' with your theater buddies till you blacked out, only to wake up to drink and buy more instead of  _ coming home _ when you coulda been  _ killed-?!" _

_ "I can handle myself, Arthur!" _ Hosea snapped. "You think I can't control it? That I can't manage it? After-"

"You sure as hell didn't last night!"

"I've been drunk before, I've had plenty o' drinks before in these past ten years and I ain't never heard you kick up a fuss-"

_ "This is different and you know it!" _

"How's it different?!"

Arthur threw out his hands to slice through the air, emphasizing each word as he growled "Because you  _ left me alone _ after worryin' yourself sick over me day in and day out! Because Dutch is DEAD, and I  _ know you!" _

Hosea's face was growing redder from just its drunken ruddiness as his eyes welled with tears.  _ "Arthur I need this," _ he snarled.

“No, you don’t!  _ I _ need  _ you!” _

“And you have me! But Arthur, I can’t-” Hosea heaved a trembling breath, his expression starting to crack around the edges “-make it through today and I sure as Hell can’t make it through the rest of this month without drinking, it’s  _ just until the end of the holidays, _ I  _ swear it, _ I  _ swear  _ I’ll stop-”

“I heard all this before,” Arthur said gruffly, his vision blurring and shimmering. He blinked the tears away down his cheeks and curled his hands into fists as he stared Hosea down. “You made that oath before. And if you couldn’t keep it with Dutch, you sure as hell can’t keep it with me.”

“Please stop saying his name,” Hosea said quietly, staring down at the floor.

Arthur narrowed his eyes. “What? Dutch?”

Hosea winced.

So Arthur kept going.

“Dutch.” Hosea cringed back away from him, so he kept advancing, tears rolling down his cheeks as he chanted, “Dutch. Dutch. Dutch.  _ Dutch. Dutch! Dutch!” _

Hosea’s back hit the counter and he choked out, “Stop it.”

“I found his letter you tore up,” Arthur pressed, his breaths whistling in his chest as he stood on the cusp of hyperventilating. “What the hell were you thinking? What the hell  _ are  _ you thinking?”

“I just want to stop thinking about  _ him,” _ Hosea gasped out, ducking his head and screwing his eyes shut. Two tears fell to the floor as he raised his hands to cover his ears. 

Arthur felt something in his chest snap, deep and terrible, and he didn’t think before he bellowed,  _ “That’s the last piece of Dutch we have, _ and you have  _ no right taking it from me! _ You already took his guns from me, and you have no right- you have  _ no goddamn right _ to do this to me! You have no right to drink on me and go back down that hole and try an’  _ kill yourself, _ you  _ selfish son of a bitch! _ You never fucking stopped before, none of any of our  _ begging  _ could make you stop, not until Dutch needed you, only  _ I need you now, _ I’ve  _ been needing you, _ and if I ain’t good enough for you Hosea then I don’t know what the Hell is or  _ what the Hell to do!” _

Hosea collapsed onto the floor and curled in on himself, clutching at his head as he rocked back and forth, his entire frame quaking as he brokenly wept.

They both remained that way for a long minute, choking on their own breath.

“It kills me,” Hosea gasped out, still rocking and hiding his face. “Every time you cough up blood. Every time you black out from pain or suff’cate into unconsh’ness, I stay up, and I listen to you breathe. I listen to you breathe and I wait for it to stop. And every time, I pray- I pray and I pray that it doesn’t, because I don’t- if you died-” he let a long, breathless sob.

Arthur’s expression crumpled. “I ain’t dead yet,” he rasped.

“It’s so… hard…” Hosea wheezed, sobbing again as Arthur slowly settled beside him on the floor, reaching out to grasp his shoulders. “Watching you suffer. Watching you in pain. Having to leave you five days a week, never knowing if when I come home if you’ll be alive or if I’ll find you cold and still and-” Hosea’s mouth moved but could no longer form words, releasing a wail instead.

Arthur slumped himself over the man in a hug, clutching tightly to him as Hosea threw his arms around him to clutch even tighter. Arthur blinked away more tears and then softly sobbed, “But I’m alive. I’m alive, ‘Sea.  _ ‘Cause of you, _ I’m  _ alive. _ An’ I’m fightin’ too, I’m fighting as hard as I can.”

“I know you are,” Hosea sobbed, his voice broken and ragged. “But I need… I  _ need…” _ A strangled noise of pain tore out of Hosea’s throat before he wept, “It ain’t the work that’s hard. All I ever been doin’ all my life is workin’, it ain’t that. But. But he… But-- H-he--” Hosea’s hands clawed into fists in Arthur’s coat. “I want… him. I want.  _ Him. _ I want him here, I want him to be here, I need him to be here, I need him,  _ I need him, _ Arthur, but he’s not!  _ HERE!” _

Hosea’s wails escalated into screams - agonized and tortured and animalistic sounds of pain that the man muffled into his coat that still managed to somehow ring off the walls, making Arthur’s teeth vibrate, and it was the same notes that the man had unleashed into Dutch’s chest twelve years ago when the man had shattered into pieces over Bessie.

He thought that the man had already shattered over Dutch before, laid up in bed in his old homestead with a wound in his side.

He knew better, now. Hosea had been torturing himself with self-blame back then, and all he’d wanted to do was crucify himself. 

Hosea wasn’t blaming himself, here. He wasn’t talking about anything he could have done, or should have done, or would have done. 

This was pure, simple… 

_ grief. _

Because Dutch... wasn’t... there.

Dutch would never be there.

Dutch would never be anywhere, ever, again.

There was so much left unsaid. So many things that they  _ needed  _ to say. That  _ Arthur  _ needed to say.

But he couldn’t.

Because Dutch. Wasn’t. There.

Because Dutch was dead.

And he didn’t even get to say goodbye.

A long wail pulled him vaguely out of his own reverie, and it took him a while to figure out it was his.

They both sat on that floor for an unknowable amount of time, the both of them sobbing out both of their grief into each other’s shoulders, unable to speak under the weight of exactly  _ how much _ was  _ missing  _ from that house - from their lives.

“I want him here too,” Arthur choked out at some point. It was all he could say. “I want him here too. I don’t care ‘bout- w-what he would or wouldn’t do. I just.” He gasped in a ragged breath and sobbed. “I wanna talk to him but I can’t. I want him to tell me his spiel about faith and say that I’ll be okay.”

Hosea was nodding against his shoulder. “I’ve always been lacking when it comes to faith,” he breathed. Then, he weakly snorted. “Feel like I’ve been trying to fill both our shoes for you and quite frankly I just don’t have enough feet or enough chutzpah.”

Arthur sniffled. “You got plenty of chutzpah. Just not Dutch chutzpah.”

“No one could ever have Dutch chutzpah.” 

Arthur hiccuped and weakly smiled. “Yeah, he was one of a kind in that regard.”

Hosea weakly patted his back. “He was one of a kind in everything.”

Arthur nestled further against Hosea. “Both the good and the bad.” He felt Hosea gently nod.

After another long stretch of silence, as their crying slowly wound down, Hosea murmured, “When Dutch was bad… he was very, very bad. But… when he was good, he was very,  _ very  _ good. And I miss that. I miss…”

Arthur shuddered and closed his eyes. “I miss him so much.”

Hosea squeezed him tightly.

“It ain’t  _ fair.” _

Hosea squeezed him tighter.

“It ain’t fuckin’ fair, and I hate Micah and I hate Milton and I hate Cornwall and I hate goddamn all of ‘em who took him from us,” he growled, his voice split and uneven.

“Killin’ ‘em all won’t bring him back,” Hosea slurred, a tremor rolling through his body. “Hatin’ ‘em don’t change nothin’. Micah’s dead and I don’t feel any goddamn better for it.”

Arthur let out a slow sigh and buried his face further in Hosea’s shoulder. “I just wish I could tell him everythin’ I wanted to tell him,” he whispered.

Hosea slowly caressed his hand through Arthur’s hair. “Me, too,” he rasped. “Oh, Arthur, I’m so sorry, my boy. I’ve been trying to bury him so deep that I’ve been taking him away from you.”

“He’s already been taken away from us,” Arthur cried. “He don’t need to be taken away more.”

Hosea pressed a kiss to his hair. “I’m sorry.”

Arthur tightened his grasp in Hosea’s coat. “Prove it.”

He felt Hosea stiffen. “Anything,” the man said.

Arthur swallowed, then sniffled, leaning back and away to look Hosea in the eye, the both of their faces red and tear-stained. He gestured his head towards the bottles sitting on the table. “Take every last one of those and dump them out in the yard, and never drink again.”

Hosea stared at him and shook.

Arthur wiped away all the tears on his face and cleared his throat. “I said,” he said clearly, enunciating each word with care, “if you’re really sorry, if you love me at all, if you love Dutch, you’ll take every one of those bottles, dump them out in the yard, and never drink again.”

Nothing happened for a long moment.

And then, Hosea did.

\--

Hosea’s birthday passed under a dark cloud as he came down from his drunken fugue and slipped into withdrawal, but neither man had to pass it alone.

Albert showed up a few hours later, wide-eyed and smiling with a carefully wrapped present, but his cheery demeanor quickly faded when Arthur informed him of what had transpired that morning. After harassing the address out of Hosea, Arthur pleaded with Albert to go out and retrieve the one man he could think of that could help. 

Hank showed up shortly thereafter, sporting a voluminous blonde wig with his face doused in powder, and while Arthur’s gut still churned uneasily, Hank’s appearance was just different enough - on top of his finely tailored winter clothes and aroma of sugar cookies and lavender - to keep his mind from reliving anything. Hank pinched Arthur’s cheek and popped a sugar cookie into his mouth with a bittersweet smile as he passed Arthur and Albert by to Hosea’s room, looking every ounce like Copper did when he accidentally made a mess of things, head ducked low with his tail between his legs.

Both Albert and Hank proved to be godsends.

As the days passed, Hank showed up daily to check in on them both and help out with chores - always sporting his blonde wig - and Albert visited almost as much, bringing with him little presents each time he did so, keeping Arthur company and talking about all sorts of things, like any pair of men spending time with a close friend, and between Albert’s and Hank’s combined efforts, things felt like an echo of normal. 

Christmas came with a distinct sense of dread, but any meek protest by Hosea about not celebrating it was gently discouraged by Arthur and shouted down by Hank. It was tentatively decided that all four of them would spend Christmas Eve together, and when the day finally came, the sun rose to shine on their house - decorated all around with garlands and tinsel and candles and knick knacks, with a fully decorated tree standing in the corner of the living space, decorated by all four of them.

Both Hosea and Arthur were quiet and tired as they passed the day with their two friends, but the smiles and laughter came easily enough - especially when they started playing poker around a full table of food. At some point during the night, Arthur caught on to Hank calling Hosea "Hoss" instead of "Mordy," and when Arthur prompted him why the change, Hank explained it was his play on the name  _ Hosea. _ Arthur looked at Hosea with wide eyes and a quirked brow, but Hosea simply shrugged and went, "I figure if I puke on a man’s crotch, he deserves to know my secret past." Arthur pursed his lips and nodded with a  _ fair  _ motion of his head, going back to absently eating his casserole while he peered at his cards - only to spit out his mouthful when Hank drawled "Y'all are  _ much _ prettier than your posters, I oughta shoot those artists myself." Albert nearly lunged across the table to shake Hank's hand while Hosea and Arthur dragged their hands down their faces, hiding their smiles.

Christmas day proper, however, was a day reserved for only their family - a boundary that they both wanted to enforce.

The morning sunlight gently caressed the walls and shining decorations as it came. The house was quiet once more, no longer full of bustling life and laughter, but it wasn’t dark nor cold, either. The smell of food had still not entirely faded from the air, love painted the walls and furniture in the myriad of colors from the decorations they’d scrounged up, and the shadows didn’t seem quite so dark. Nor did the memories.

After a warm breakfast of pancakes and maple syrup with cinnamon, both men shuffled their way towards the tree and eased themselves down onto an array of blankets and pillows on the floor. There were only two presents under the tree rather than a small mountain - Christmas in the gang was always an exercise in chaos celebrated with whatever trees were close to camp and an unreasonable amount of gunpowder - but two was all they needed.

Arthur slowly, carefully picked up his gift for Hosea and gently handed it to him. “Here.”

Hosea grasped the small rectangular gift and shot Arthur a soft smile. With care, he peeled away the wrapping and opened up the box, sliding out a piece of paper. 

Hosea’s breath softly hitched as he gazed down at the drawing, his eyes suddenly shining in the dim light.

It was the result of three days worth of labor from Arthur as he toiled endlessly to get it perfect, constantly hiding it from Hosea’s notice - a shaded pencil drawing of a bust of Dutch, smiling, an impish twinkle in his eye as he tips the brim of his hat, his face softly settled into the laugh lines and wrinkles around his eyes and mouth. His pomade-tamed curly hair dangled past his ear and onto his shoulder, covered with his favorite shirt and vest, his collar popped open the way he always liked to wear it.

Hosea swiftly set it down and covered his mouth as he closed his eyes, his shoulders quivering for a long moment. Arthur’s expression had just started shifting into worry when Hosea’s hand shot out to the nape of his neck, folding him down against Hosea’s chest in a tight embrace as Hosea let out a soft sob. “I love it,” Hosea choked out. Arthur immediately relaxed with a sigh of relief and hugged the man in return. “I love it. God, you got him perfectly, he- it’s like a picture. It’s better than a picture, look!” Hosea gushed, picking it back up again.

Arthur blushed and started shaking his head. “It was the least I could do…”

“Shut up,” Hosea warmly snipped, shoving at his shoulder. He wiped at his eyes and wheezed a laugh. “You’re a sweet boy. This is-” he sighed, a soft, happy note, gazing down at the drawing. “This is how I want to remember him,” he whispered. 

Arthur’s eyes shined as he smiled at the man. “I’m glad you like it.”

“I love it,” Hosea replied. He ducked his head with one last smile, then ruffled Arthur’s hair, reverently setting the drawing aside before grabbing his gift for Arthur and handing it to him. “Now you open yours.”

Arthur fixed his hair with a good-natured huff before sliding aside the ribbon and unwrapping the paper from around his own gift. What emerged was a tall stack of fine stationery and a regal black oak fountain pen. 

“This is too expens-” Arthur immediately started saying.

“Hush,” Hosea said curtly. He placed a heavy hand on Arthur’s shoulder and gave it a warm squeeze. “A learned man like you deserves a fine set of stationery and a proper pen to write correspondence. Once you get better and we head to Canada, you’ll be able to write whoever you want to write to - any of the family who live too far away, any of those old strangers you… run into… and of course there’s dear  _ Albert,” _ Hosea said with a wink. Then, his expression shifted into something far more somber. “Though for now… I thought you could use them to talk to Dutch.”

Arthur blinked at him, then blinked down at the paper and the pen. “How can I use this to talk to Dutch? Am I gonna stick this in an envelope addressed to his P.O. Box in Hell?”

Hosea snorted and shook his head. “No, no, just… You talked about how there were things you never got to tell him. About how you never got to say goodbye. So, I thought… this would be a nice way for you to talk to him. To write him a letter that you can keep with you. I don’t know much about life after death, but… I like to think… he’ll hear you if you write to him. Even if it’s just the parts of himself that live on in you,” Hosea finished softly, pressing a gentle finger against Arthur’s heart.

Arthur slowly bit his lip and blinked a couple tears free from his eyes. He smiled brightly and bumped his shoulder against Hosea’s, swallowing back his emotion so he could speak clearly enough to say, “Thank you. I… _ Thank you.” _

“Thank  _ you,” _ Hosea said softly, ruffling the hair at the base of his neck. They both fell into another hug.

The pain of Dutch’s loss wasn’t any less. Nor was any of the bitterness from which he left in.

But they were no longer afraid of his memory. They were no longer afraid of loving him. 

And he felt just a little less farther away.

\--

“Watch your step!”

“I’m tryin’!” 

“Oof-”

“You sure comin’ up on the roof is worth it for the fireworks?”

“I am  _ positive, _ dear boy - we deserve to be out in the open air and under the stars for this. And up high, but this whole land is flat as a- Careful with that tea!”

“It’s in a thermos!”

“I know, but don’t drop it! Here, take my hand-”

With a heave, Arthur let Hosea pull him up on top of their roof, the both of them standing warily on their shingles. With slow, halting movements, they both eased themselves down into sitting positions, bundled up tightly in multiple layers of clothes and wrapped firmly in their coats and scarves. They went without hats - they might obscure the view.

“You got the time?” Hosea asked Arthur, nudging him with his elbow.

Arthur fumbled to pull out his pocket watch and pop it open. The moonlight was just enough for him to see by. “We got about three minutes to midnight. Lord, we barely made it.”

“We needed warm beverages,” Hosea griped, opening up his thermos full of coffee and taking a long drink. He gulped it down, then growled, “Augh, we’re probably the only fools not getting drunk tonight.”

“Besides every other TB patient, you mean?” Arthur drawled. Hosea shrugged in a  _ fair  _ motion. “Seriously, though,” Arthur said softly, “I’m glad you ain’t drinkin’.”

Hosea’s expression twinged. After a long moment, he tore his gaze from the city to look at Arthur, something shining bittersweet in his eyes. “I ain’t too keen on failing you again, son, even though I itch for that bottle every day. I’d fight far worse than my ache for the drink for your sake.”

“Well, let’s hope you ain’t gotta fight nothin’ ‘sides that, ‘cause that’s a worthy adversary enough,” Arthur murmured, gently bumping their shoulders together as he unscrewed his tea thermos, taking a long drink. They both looked back to the twinkling cityscape in front of them, shimmering like a tribute to the stars above, answering their cool pure white light with its long string of warm earthy golds. The Colorado wind gently flew past them and filtered through their hair like fond caressing fingers, clean and open, and Arthur took a deep breath - just because he could.

It felt good to be alive.

“What time is it?” Hosea asked again. Arthur popped open his pocket watch and looked again with a soft laugh.

“Okay… thirty seconds…”

Hosea clapped and hollered before leaning over to look at the watchface. “Okay, here we go!”

Arthur wheezed out a loud laugh. “The hell you doin’ actin’ like a kid?”

“Only a quarter of me thought I’d live to see the turn of the millennium, son, let me live a little-”

“Oop- Ten! Nine!”

“Shit-”

_ “‘Eight! Seven! Six! Five! Four! Three! Two! One!’” _

A screaming shot went flying up out of the heart of the city, soaring up high into the sky, before exploding with a deep, bone-thumping  **_boom_ ** \- felling the year 1899 away into the past, taking with it all of its bloodshed, all of its hardships, all of its pain, its death, its agony and trials, sealing it away into memory as the nineteenth century retired itself to history to be replaced by the twentieth, bringing in the year 1900 in a rain of glowing, dazzling, glittering fire in a mix of reds and blues and greens.

Jubilant screams rang out in the distance as the people of Denver began celebrating, ringing and rolling out through the air all around them alongside the joyous toll of Church bells as two- three- five more fireworks shot up into the air to explode in dazzling embers. Hosea tried to howl but swiftly descended into coughs, and after Arthur thumped him on the back enough with a rueful grin, he prompted “Think you can manage Auld Lang Syne with me old man?”

Hosea wheezed out a laugh and coughed a couple more times into his sleeve, breathing in a long whistling breath into his lungs. “Maybe, if you quit callin’ me old!” he rasped, shaking himself and turning to smile at Arthur. “You ready?  _ Should auld acquaintance be forgot-” _

_ “And never brought to mind?” _ Arthur answered with a wide grin. They both slung their arms around each other and turned back to the fireworks, continuing to sing.

_ Should auld acquaintance be forgot _ _  
_ _ And days of auld lang syne? _

_ For auld lang syne, my dear _ _  
_ _ For auld lang syne _ _  
_ _ We'll tak a cup o' kindness yet _ _  
_ _ For days of auld lang syne! _

_ We twa hae run about the braes _ _  
_ _ And pu'd the gowans fine _ __  
_ But we've wander'd mony a weary fit _ _  
_ __ Sin days of auld lang syne!

.

.

.

.

.

.

Below them, in the upper level of their house, in his bedroom, carefully tucked away and lovingly folded within his nightstand, sat a letter.

_ Dear Dutch, _

_ There’s so much I want to say to you. Writing has always made words come easier for me, but… sitting here and writing them out to you, I can’t seem to find the right ones, but I will try. _

_ We almost lost everything. We almost lost everything before you died, and we almost lost everything after you died, multiple times, and I don’t think you ever truly recognized how close we all came to oblivion. I can’t rightly say how many times I’ve come close to death now. Hosea’s come near death multiple times as well. We’ve lost Kieran, and Sean, and Mac and Davey and Jenny. Blackwater set us all on a dark and dangerous path of hubris and corruption, all because you became obsessed with a man with a heart sicker than that of Satan himself, insisting on giving him the “benefit of the doubt” while you doubted my and Hosea’s word that we had a way to get us all out and get us that happy ending you always talked about. _

_ But this was never really about Micah, was it? _

_ You never wanted that happy ending. You wanted us to be happy, but you never wanted things to end. I think I understand, now. All those years of running together, all of us having adventures, taking in folk we encountered and sheltering them, helping folk where we could, the thrill of bringing in such huge sums of cash because we had the numbers and the skill to pull it off… you were addicted to it. It made you happy, or it was secure because it was what you knew, or maybe it was your defense, your shelter as the world kept changing around us and closing in on us. Maybe the constant running made you feel in control.  _

_ I can’t pretend to understand you, and my head hurts trying to, so I’m going to stop now. Besides, I don’t really reckon you understand yourself. But I wish you could have seen what it was doing to all of us. How much Hosea’s heart was breaking every time we lost someone. How much of a toll this all was taking on me, in more ways than one. _

_ I used to think we were doing good, but you sent me out to tear a father away from his partner and his son, and I know now that there’s nothing good about what we were doing. _

_ I’ve been doing a lot of thinking for myself over these long months as I cough up my own blood, as tuberculosis tears my lungs apart for my stupidity and dismissal of empathy and blind loyalty to you. I wanted so much to make you happy, to make you proud. That’s all I ever wanted to do, ever since you saved me from the streets. But somewhere along the way, you lost sight of what was making  _ _ us _ _ happy. _

_ All we ever wanted was you, Dutch. All we ever wanted was to be a family. We all wanted to stop running, not because we doubted you had it in you to lead us and see us through whatever the world threw at us, but because we just wanted to ensure that we could wake up in the morning and we would all be there. _

_ I’ve grown to hold every morning I wake up as incredibly dear. It is less so because you’re not here. There’s no guarantee that one of these mornings I won’t wake up, but I try, with everything I have, because I want to see and live with our family. Because I can’t stand to break Hosea’s heart. I’ve already seen you do it. _

_ I’ve been blaming you for nearly everything except my stubbed toes recently, and even then I’ve been considering it. I can’t anymore. I miss and love you too much for that. _

_ I can’t claim to know why you do anything, why you’d go after Colm or Cornwall’s train or not look for me after that parlay or want revenge on Bronte or yell and snap at and berate me like I’m some two-bit huckster who joined up two days ago instead of twenty years, but I think you were scared. I think you were scared that the whole world really was against you, and feeling like we were against you too only made you more scared. _

_ We were only scared for you, Dutch. Scared for you because we loved you. You weren’t alone in any of this. You never were. But I don’t reckon you ever saw that. _

_ Not until it was too late. _

_ I want to thank you for doing what you did that day. For going out there and saving Hosea. Laying down your life for his. _

_ I wish it never came to it, but if there is one thing that brings me peace about your death, about how horrible it was to see you die, it’s that you died out of love. And I hope that Hosea was able to bring you at least a little comfort before you passed. Knowing you, I’m sure he did. _

_ I miss you, Dutch. And I love you. Always have, and always will, until I see you again - and I hope that day doesn’t come too soon. I don’t think you’d like it if it did. _

_ You haven’t been a perfect father to me, and sometimes you’ve been downright cruel, and I even hesitate to call you a good one, but a father to me you were. And for all the hurt you’ve ever put me through, I’d go through it all again for the memories of love and joy and laughter I have with you. _

_ If I ever have children again, I pray I won’t be like you. I failed Isaac because I wanted to be like you. And now, you’re gone from me. But I’m still proud and happy to call you the man who raised me. _

_ For whatever harm you’ve ever done to me, Dutch, I forgive you.  _

_ And I release you. _

_ I love you. _

_ Your son, _

_ Arthur _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **1) Dutch van der Linde's Last Stand**  
>  **2) Escape from Saint Denis**  
>  **3) Escape from Lemoyne**  
>  **4) The Letter**  
>  **5) Reunions**  
>  **6) Unfinished Business**  
>  **7) I Know You**  
>  **8) Dreams, Omens, and Other Harbingers**  
>  **9) For Whom the Bell Tolls**  
>  **10) My First Boy**  
>  **11) National Jewish Health**  
>  **12) Sins of the Past**  
>  **13) Atonement**  
>  **14) Arcadia for Amateurs VI**  
>  **15) Violated**  
>  **16) The Letter II**  
>  17) Eleanor Stephens


	17. Eleanor Stephens

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content Warning** for non-graphic **forced institutionalization** (the plot revolves around getting the character out), **ableism** and **ableist language** regarding mental illness, **past child death** , and **gore.**
> 
> This chapter... took a while, because the last two Heavy chapters burnt me out a good bit, so I took December as a bit of a fluff hiatus break before coming back to write this - a very, very plot-thick chapter that sets the stage for the Grand Finale, because... we're here, folks. The next chapter will be a very short transition chapter, and then... it's the final chapter of the story before the epilogue.
> 
> When I first started this fic, I set out with very specific goals in mind. My first goal was for Hosea to obtain the skills necessary to navigate self-hatred and grief. My second goal was for Arthur to not be alone in his fight against TB, for him to be able to _win_. My third goal, of course, is for Arthur to be able to love himself and accept that he deserves good things. My fourth goal... is... by _far..._ my most ambitious. I wanted to write this story, from the very start, as an aggressive challenge to the message I walked away from Red Dead with that people who try and change themselves and recover end up dying slowly, in pain, alone. That the world could never let these characters live in peace - that the crimes of their past, no matter how good they became, would always catch up with them and exact their price in blood and profound suffering. In this last phase of the story, I wrestle with the concept of black and white morality, with purity ethics, with Justice, and what it truly means to love these characters - to love these _murderers_ \- and whether it's truly possible for them to be good people.
> 
> The character exploration phase has ended and it's all thick, thick plot from here, friends. I hope with all my heart you enjoy the story I hope to tell, and _thank you,_ endlessly, so much, for all the support and love you all have given me and this work. This story of mine means the most to me of anything I have ever written, and I wager it will remain the most important piece of writing I've ever created. It's a dearly personal piece of catharsis I needed in the aftermath of Red Dead's canon, and it's an honor and privilege to be able to try and share that catharsis with you all, too ♥

**_January, 1900_ **

“Can you breathe in for me?”

Arthur took in as deep a breath as he was able, filling his diaphragm. 

"Out…"

Arthur slowly exhaled and flicked his eyes to Doctor Zieglar's face. The crease in the man’s brow slowly eased and a light lit up in his eyes as he leaned away, nodding slightly as he lowered his stethoscope to hang around his neck. He picked up a tongue depressor and asked, “Open your mouth and say ah?”

Arthur did so, letting Zieglar angle his head towards the sunlight to peer down his throat. After discarding the dispenser, Zieglar felt around his neck, pressing his fingers against his glands with a thoughtful expression. Arthur side-eyed Hosea for lack of anything better to do during the awkward examination, and Hosea huffed a laugh at him from where he was leaning in the doorway, his thumbs hooked into his pockets.

“Well, then,” Doctor Zieglar sighed heavily, finally leaning back and away to give Arthur his not-quite-smile. “Mr. Jones, it pleases me to say that your condition is improving again. Quite well, might I add.” Arthur let out a relieved breath, and Zieglar continued, “I immediately recommend resuming gentle daily exercise. I know you picked up a few chores before - those will be just fine. After a month or so, even, I may recommend going hunting as a way to work your body.”

Arthur and Hosea exchanged a bright smile as Doctor Zieglar began packing up his things. Arthur looked back to beam at the man with a “Thank you kindly, Doc.”

“Please,” Zieglar drawled, snapping his bag shut and standing up with a tired grunt. He sighed and almost-smiled at Hosea and Arthur again. “You both have been doing very well. If your condition hadn’t improved, Mr. Jones, I would strictly prescribe that you enroll in the sanatorium rather than trying to manage it at home, but… as long as you  _ are  _ managing, I believe things should be just fine.”

Hosea spoke up from his corner to say, “We’ve had a lot of help from a pair of close friends. They’ll be happy to hear their charity paid off.”

Zieglar picked up his bag and shook Arthur’s hand, then moved away to nod warmly at Hosea. Hosea patted the doctor on the back and asked, “Should I see you out?”

Zieglar waved him down and continued moving away. “I will be fine. You both, celebrate! L’chaim, to your good health!”

“Lehitraot!” Hosea called back, while Arthur called “Take care now!”

The instant Zieglar started walking down the stairs, Hosea made a beeline over to him to punch him in the shoulder, eliciting a soft  _ ow. _

“I’m teaching you how to cook!” Hosea practically shouted, clapping his hands together before tugging Arthur out of the bed like a child on Christmas morning. “Come on! Get dressed! You’re riding with me to the market, I’m gonna have you pick out ingredients for chili!”

Arthur let out a loud, bright, rolling laugh. “Slow the hell down, old man!”

_ “Never!” _ Hosea called back, practically skipping away into his room.

In less than fifteen minutes, both men were dressed and bundled up for the cool air and taking out the horses to hitch and tack up. Killer, as soon as he saw Arthur with his saddle in his hands, started tossing his head and stamping at the slushy ground, letting out a loud piercing neigh that got both men laughing.

That January day in Denver was bright and joyful, the air still permeating with the sense of optimism and cheer that the new year and new millennium had brought, making the land still hold a sense of beauty even amongst the barren ground and filthy slush slopped to the sides of all the roads - for the sky above them was still bright and clear, and the sun shined softly down upon the city in bright golden light, warming the bricks and cobblestones and reflecting off the pools of melted water or twinkling off the remaining ice like thousands of little winks at passersby. Folk rode by on horseback or in wagons with light jackets and red noses, still greeting each other with warm “Howdy”s and “Afternoon!”s, no one quite yet willing to go back to the cold or belligerent apathy that cityscapes so often bred.

Killer kept his gait tight and almost bouncy as he pranced down the road, his hooves sploshing into the slush with each springing step to the point Arthur was worried the poor horse would slip. The Count, in contrast, sloshed miserably through the slush with his ears pinned back, making low gutteral noises of complaint each time his hooves  _ squelched  _ into the gritty water. Arthur kept having to rein Killer to a stop for The Count to catch up, his thoroughbred still stepping in place with his head held high while The Count bellowed at him and opened his mouth to nip at him as soon as he got close, only prevented from doing so by Hosea scoldingly reining the old arabian away from the younger stallion with a mocking drawl of “I  _ know, _ you old dainty desert-born sonuvabitch, you  _ hate everything.”  _ Arthur smiled brightly at both horses, leaning forward to heartily pat Killer with a coo of  _ That’s my boy _ before nudging the thoroughbred to bouncily follow the bitter old albino.

“I think he’s becoming more like you!” Arthur called up to Hosea as they rounded an intersection.

“You watch your mouth,” Hosea threatened with a pointed finger, his mouth unable to hold back a smile, and they both quickly dissolved into chuckles.

It wasn’t long before they finally reached the marketplace that Hosea frequented. They quickly pulled both their horses up to a pair of hitching rings and dismounted, tying the reins into a slip-knot and petting the stallions for their trouble - Arthur slipped Killer a peppermint and he spotted Hosea slip The Count a sugarcube - before turning and walking into the ring of stalls and stores.

“Okay,” Hosea sighed, rubbing his hands together before reaching into his satchel and handing Arthur a wad of cash. “I’m going to get the basics, the beef and tomatoes and beans, and you go get whatever else you think would make the best damn chili you’ve ever tasted. Easy?”

“N-Naw?” Arthur answered, his brow furrowing.

“You’ll do great!” Hosea chirped, slapping him on the shoulder with a wide smile before walking off into the churning crowd. “Just follow your stomach!”

“I ain’t-!” Arthur started, then trailed off with a disappointed groan as Hosea vanished. He looked down at the cash in his hand and then slipped it into his satchel with a sigh. “Never was guided by my stomach,” he muttered.

...When was even the last time he had chili?

With a deep grumble, Arthur set about milling around all the stalls, perusing all of their contents and contemplating what would make the blandest chili he could think of taste better. He passed by all the racks of meat and honey to slip into a general grocer’s to peruse its stock of produce.

After ten minutes or so, Arthur delicately picked up a few cloves of garlic, raised his brow at them and rolled his lip between his teeth, then proceeded to grab a couple bell peppers and onions. None of the seasonings were to his liking, so he casually paid for what he’d found and set out for an herb and spice stall he passed earlier.

The sweet old woman sitting behind it smiled warmly at him as he approached, and he gave her a smile and nod as he settled in front of the display, looking around at all of the pre-made containers of spices. 

Lord, had Pearson ever spoiled him to all hell when it came to flavor. He was of half a mind that his taste buds wilted and died over the past decade, burned off by the power of blandness. He didn’t know what spices to choose to make something register as delicious in his mouth - he only knew how to be surprised when he took a bite of something that didn’t taste like a wet boot sole.

“This your first time with something so mundane?”

Arthur startled slightly at the deep, smooth voice that came from behind his shoulder. He quickly turned to take in the stranger, and the first point of reference his mind gave him was Trelawny, given the fine suit and pointed black moustache - only this man was a touch shorter and stockier than the squirrely magician, his face more square and his eyes a deep dark brown so much so they seemed almost black, his voice a deep smooth bass rather than a warbly tenor. 

Arthur leaned away from him slightly. “Pardon?”

The man smiled at him, a small thing that didn’t reach his eyes. “Most men don’t do the shopping for the family meal, nor do most bachelors bother with spices. But you’re neither most men nor a bachelor, are you?”

“I’m a feller who ain’t afraid of a little housework, is who I am,” Arthur gruffed, turning away from the stranger to wrinkle his brow at the spices once more.

“And yet you seem out of your element,” the man drawled. “You may not be afraid of housework, but it’s not something you’re used to, hm?”

Arthur sighed and glanced up at the sky a moment before turning to the stranger. “Look, mister, are you here to give me advice on how to spice a chili or are you just here to annoy me?”

The strange man turned to him and subtly quirked a brow, fixing him with a stare like a parent would a child who spoke out of turn. He held it just long enough for Arthur to feel goosebumps shiver down his spine before the man huffed a laugh and smiled. “Just trying to help, friend.”

“Well whatever you’re helping me with, it ain’t figuring out spices,” Arthur harrumphed, picking up a container labeled  _ chili powder _ and wondering if that would, indeed, go good in chili.

“You have a family that you intend to cook for?”

“Eventually.” Arthur picked up another container labeled  _ oregano. _ “Though, I reckon it’ll be a while ‘fore I can see ‘em again… My, uh- my Dad’s gonna teach me before we head back there.” He smiled slightly. “I’m looking forward to surprising ‘em.”

The strange man tilted his head at him and hummed, gently. His voice was low and mournful when he said, “I hope you get the chance, Mr. Morgan. I really do.”

Arthur froze and blinked. Slowly, he shifted his weight to angle himself at the strange man. He swallowed, then worked to keep his voice quiet and even as he asked “How do you know my name?”

“I know everyone’s name,” the strange man shrugged.

Arthur squinted at him, squaring himself off. “What else do you know?”

The strange man inclined his head towards him, clasping his hands behind his back. “That going home to your family isn’t your decision to make.”

Arthur reared back a little and curled his hands into fists around the canisters in his hands, his eyes widening as his jaw clenched, when suddenly he was distracted by a loud crash behind him accompanied by a woman’s shriek and the sound of Hosea’s yelp. He quickly looked over his shoulder to spy Hosea kneeling down to hurriedly gather up a mess of dropped groceries as a black-haired woman in a plain threadbare dress and an old coat hurried to do the same, the both of them exchanging frantic apologies. Arthur turned back around to confront the strange man, only to find empty space.

He could only search the crowd for that stovepipe hat for a few seconds before a ragged, ear-splitting scream, like a banshee’s enraged wail, sounded behind him.

Arthur whirled around again just in time to see the black-haired woman throw herself forward onto Hosea and punch him in the face.

_ “What the hell?!” _ he yelled, dropping everything in his hands to try and push through the panicked crowd to get to them, bouncing off of people backing or skittering away with either screams or cries of  _ Oh my God! _ or judgemental grumbles.

It was hard to make out what the woman was saying amongst her enraged screams, but  _ “I’ll fucking kill you!” _ was clear enough - Hosea, for his part, was white as a sheet under where he’d thrown his arms up to shield his face, blood trickling out of his nose. Arthur rammed his way through six more people so he could finally grab the poor woman from behind and pull her away with a yell of “Ma’am! Ma’am! Calm down!”

_ “Let me GO, let me at him, it’s him, it’s Matthews! Hosea Matthews! POLICE!” _ the woman shrieked in response, writhing and thrashing in his arms, and maybe he truly had lost more weight and muscle than he thought, because she easily tore out of his grip with a kick to his shin and a rake of nails across his hands to throw herself upon Hosea again where he’d just started to get up, scrabbling at his throat to strangle him.

“LADY!” Arthur barked, diving for her again, and to his surprise four women from the crowd rushed in to do the same, helping him grab her by the wrists and shoulders and waist, dragging her away once more - the second she was clear, Arthur dropped down to hover protectively over Hosea as two separate police whistles rushed towards them from either side, the woman still attempting to singlehandedly fight off all four women as she ravenously pointed at them and screamed  _ “Hosea Matthews! That’s Hosea Matthews and Arthur Morgan! POLICE!” _

Arthur glanced at Hosea, propped up on his elbows and panting, still staring at the woman like he was looking at a ghost.  _ “Hosea what do we do?!” _ he hissed.

Hosea glanced around them at the crowd, murmuring or outright yelling things such as  _ How awful! _ and  _ She attacked that sweet old man! _ and  _ Put that woman in an asylum! _ “Play victim,” he whispered, right before he let out a loud pained noise and slumped into Arthur’s chest, prompting a young man and old woman to flutter towards them with concerned noises.

Two police officers jogged through the crowd and spat out their whistles to hang around their necks, the both of them rushing to the bundle of women - one of them, older and stockier, grabbed the black-haired woman and harshly threw her onto the cobblestones with a painful-sounding  _ whump, _ digging a knee into her back while yelling “Miss Stephens, control yourself!”

The woman - Stephens - continued writhing and fighting, howling  _ “No, NO, arrest THEM, not me! They’re Matthews and Morgan! That’s Hosea Matthews! He killed my Mama! He killed my MAMA!” _

“Here, Mister,” the young man who knelt on Hosea’s other side peeped, offering a handkerchief to catch the blood leaking out of Hosea’s nose which Hosea quickly accepted with a nasal “Thank you, son,” while the old woman batted her eyes at them through her round glasses and fussed “Are you two dears all right?”

“S-She just- attacked my Dad out of nowhere,” Arthur stammered, feeling a mixture of glad and sickened that he didn’t have to pretend to be rattled.

“I’m not surprised,” the old woman drawled, giving Stephens a judgemental sidelong glance right as the two officers managed to wrangle her into handcuffs. The younger and scrawnier of the two officers backed away slightly to catch his breath, then hurried over towards them with a tip of his hat.

“You fellas okay? Do you need medical attention, sir?” the officer asked with a concerned frown.

Hosea emphatically shook his head, still cradling his nose and shaking. “No, no, I’m fine, I’m  _ fine, _ please…”

“I don’t even know what happened!” Arthur barked to the world at large with a frustrated flick of his arm. Stephens’s writhing was slowly dying down as her screams melted into broken sobs where she lay pinned to the ground.

The officer bit his lip and then looked over his shoulder at the sad scene. “Oh, that’s Shirley Stephens. We see her in jail a fair amount, she’s a little…” the officer swirled his finger around his temple and whistled two notes. He frowned. “Shame that she’s adding assault to her record, poor thing - but oh, where are my manners, are you sure you two gentlemen don’t need anything from the Denver police department?”

“I just want to go home,” Hosea almost sobbed, earning him low  _ aww!s _ from the young man and old woman who continued to hover over them. Arthur pouted and nodded up at the lawman, who pouted down in return.

“I can let you gentlemen go as soon as I get your names for the report,” the officer said gingerly.

“Mordecai,” Hosea groaned. “Mordecai Jones…”

“And I’m Arthur Jones, his son,” Arthur said tersely. “Are we free to go now?”

“Don’t let me keep you,” the officer tutted, backing away to go help the other officer haul Stephens onto her feet. He gestured at Arthur and yelled “You take care of that poor old man!”

“I will!” Arthur called over, and as the crowd finally began to resume their daily business, he nodded his thanks at the old woman and young man before pushing himself uneasily up to his feet and pulling Hosea up after him. He slung an arm around Hosea’s shoulders to support him, and they each used their free hands to pick up their paper sacks of groceries - Hosea still pressing a bloody handkerchief to his nose - before heading to the horses.

They didn’t speak for the entire ride home, and whenever Arthur looked at Hosea, he had his face hidden under his hat and behind the handkerchief. When they finally reined their horses up to the hitching post in front of their house, Hosea slid off The Count, pocketed the handkerchief, grabbed both bags of groceries, and marched straight into the house without a word, his posture and gait rigid and tight with steely eyes above his blood-smeared face.

Arthur hitched both horses and hurried inside after him, catching the door before it fully closed and snapping it shut firmly behind him. He watched Hosea set the bags on the kitchen table and then turn towards the counter, planting both hands on it and leaning forward to brace himself, his head and back sagging between his rigid shoulders.

With slow, careful steps, Arthur walked over to perch on the table behind Hosea, where he dragged in a deep breath and ran his fingers over and through each other. "So… what do you think?"

Hosea was silent for a beat. Then, with a wary sigh, he moved over to the pot of clean water set aside on the range to dip a hand towel in, wringing it out in the sink before using it to wipe the blood off his face. "I think we should be okay," he said slowly, scrubbing under his nose. "Saved by the power of sexism, as it were. Everyone saw us a sweet old man and his sickly son beset upon by some mad harlot."

Arthur peered at him curiously. "Who do you think she could be? Could she be from Saint Denis?"

Hosea slowly shook his head, dragging the towel along each side of his jaw before tossing it on the counter. He turned towards Arthur, then, leaning his hip against the wood, and Arthur could finally see the haunted look in his eyes again. "Oh, no, no… I recognized her."

Arthur's brow quirked up. "You actually know her?"

Hosea was unresponsive for a long moment before he gave a delayed nod, eyes staring at something unseen.

Arthur opened his mouth, then paused to cough into his coat collar. It was a small episode that passed quickly, and after clearing his throat, he turned back to Hosea and asked "What was all that about you killing her Ma?"

"Exactly what it sounds like," Hosea said with a shrug, finally blinking out of some memory to look at Arthur tiredly, looking every last day of his fifty-six years and then some. 

Arthur blinked. "And what does it sound like?"

"That I killed her mother."

Arthur flapped his jaw for a few moments and sat up straight. "W- Why? You had to have had a reason, right? Or was it an accident?"

Hosea dropped his gaze and shook his head, slowly crossing his arms. "I killed a woman in cold blood, Arthur, I don't know what you want to hear."

"When was this?" Arthur pressed.

"Long before I met you. Before I met Dutch." Hosea scrubbed a hand over his face. "It must have been, oh… thirty years ago or so?"

Arthur huffed incredulously, his expression softening. "That was a long time ago."

Hosea glanced up at him. "Time heals some wounds and makes others grow rancid, Arthur, you know that."

"I also know you ain't some stone-cold killer." Arthur lifted his chin slightly when Hosea properly met his gaze. "There's gotta be more to the story you ain't telling me."

“There’s really not,” Hosea said dully. He heaved a sigh and rubbed at his eyes, shaking his head slightly. “I was young, and… stupid, and… cruel.” He shrugged again, seeming to slough off any remaining nerves or regrets. “It was a long-con and house burglary gone wrong. There. That’s the story.”

Arthur huffed. “Ain’t like you to make a story so sterile.”

Hosea casually started unpacking their groceries and putting them away. “You sure were never in the mood to give details about Thomas Downes, and Dutch sure never sang the ballad of Heidi McCourt. For all of Dutch’s talk about the lifestyle of the  _ noble outlaw, _ we were all criminals, Arthur. Sometimes we get innocent folk down the length of our sights and we just don’t think. It’s what happens when you make a habit of killin’. We all regret it, and then there’s nothing we can do about it except… try and do better and move on.”

Arthur frowned at the river of memories that flowed through his mind of the countless men he’d killed over his long years - stagecoach drivers, bounty hunters, men on trains with a pistol and too much bravado, witnesses who he’d shot in the back. Women, too - mostly ones who got caught up in a gang or came at him with a knife after inviting him into their homes. He remembered Jimmy Brooks’s cries for help all too clearly as he dangled from that cliff. Could still remember how easy it would have been to let him fall - how incredibly tempted he’d been.

He also remembered, with resounding clarity, how grateful the man had been when he showed him mercy. How light and hope reignited in that interracial couple’s and that widowed mother’s eyes when he made amends with them. How saving Edith Downes and her son was the one thing that made his future worth fighting for.

“So that’s it?” Arthur pressed as Hosea continued to putter around the kitchen. “You’re just gonna say ‘ain’t nothing for it’ and not do anything about what happened today?”

“Yup,” Hosea said casually. “I already made my peace. That young cruel idiot I was is long dead, and I worked hard to kill him. Best thing I can do now is stay out of that poor girl’s life.”

“But what if it’s not?” Arthur continued, hopping off the table to advance on Hosea, turning and stepping in one direction or another as Hosea continued flitting around putting away their ingredients. “Look, me setting things right with the Downes - or setting them as right as I could - has given me more peace than anything else on this Earth could’ve given me, and every day I live a little easier with myself knowing that after things went to Hell I tried to set things right with the folk I hurt. That Stephens woman got thrown to the ground by a goddamn cop and arrested for  _ your assault, _ ‘Sea, and who knows what’s going to happen to her now-”

“So what do you suggest?” Hosea interrupted, finally pausing to turn and look at him, though not unkindly, judging by the way his expression softened.

Arthur straightened up again and took a deep breath to steel himself. After a beat, he said, “You oughta march down there to the police station and insist that you don’t wanna press any charges and that they should let her go. Try an’ talk to her, apologize-”

Hosea held up a hand to cut him off. “I can get on board with making sure the law doesn’t chew that poor girl up,” he said haltingly, his muscles drawing up tighter with each word, “but I think I’d just hurt her more if I try and talk with her.”

Arthur shook his head a little. “I disagree.”

Hosea furrowed his brow.  _ “I _ disagree. I’ll get them to drop their charges, and then I’m getting the hell out of there, and God willing, she’ll never see me again.”

“Well all right then - let’s go right now!” Arthur chirped, moving to take a step when the room suddenly swam and he caught himself on the kitchen table. Hosea was at his side in a heartbeat, firmly bracing him upright.

“...First thing tomorrow morning,” Hosea said gently. “I swear it.”

Arthur blinked his way through the dizziness and nodded. “Okay,” he said roughly, closing his eyes to try and stave off the nausea. “...You still gonna teach me how to cook chili tonight?”

“Maybe let’s try for a less taxing day,” Hosea said gently.

Arthur felt himself pout - and this time it wasn’t an act. “...Fine.”

Hosea laughed at him.

\--

The next morning, shortly after the sun climbed above the horizon to gently whisper across the morning frost and coax it into thawing, both men saddled up their horses and headed out into the inner city at a brisk trot.

“So, what do we say when we get there?” Arthur called over to Hosea.

“With any luck, it’ll be a short and simple act of a doting old fool who doesn’t want to see a woman in irons,” Hosea called back, guiding The Count through an alley to serve as a shortcut and afford them some privacy, Killer following close behind. “If they think I’m senile, I’ll need you to back me up. Make up a sob story about your late mother believing in clemency or something.”

“Hosea, you know I’m not the best at improv,” Arthur warned, tensing up in his saddle.

“Then let’s hope they don’t think I’m senile,” Hosea said over his shoulder with a wink, half a second before his expression fell grave again. “Once they agree and move to let her out, you and I are getting the hell out of there, understand?”

“Sure.”

In only a few short minutes, both men pulled their stallions to a stop in front of the Denver City Police Station, letting out a long breath in unison before dismounting and hitching their horses to the hitching rail. They fell into step side by side as they marched down the sidewalk and climbed the steps into the towering dark building, stepping out of the light and into the dark of the bustling station, full of men in uniform walking one place or another, bounty hunters perusing the boards, or citizens sitting on benches to give statements or haggle for their friend’s or family’s release.

Hosea stepped up to the officer manning the main desk and asked, his voice light and kind, “Excuse me? Young man?”

The officer blinked up from the papers on the desk to take in Hosea and Arthur and shifted his weight from one foot to the other. “What can I do for you, sir?” he asked tiredly.

Hosea smiled brightly at him in the way that almost made his eyes disappear. “Yesterday there was a, uh - a young woman? She would’ve been brought in for assaulting an old man? Well, I’m that old man! Is there anyone I can speak to about dropping all charges? I don’t want anything done to her.”

“Ugh,” the officer sighed, blinking heavily. “Let me go get the Chief.”

Both Hosea and Arthur smiled politely at him as he moved away towards the back of the station, then dropped it to glance at each other.

It was back again when a tall, broad-shouldered man with blonde hair and a thick walrus moustache stepped out and gestured at them. “Are you the Joneses?” Hosea and Arthur nodded, and the Chief grunted before walking towards the back of the station, gesturing them after him. “Step into my office.”

Arthur took the liberty to glance around at all the cells they passed, looking for that mysterious woman with the long black hair, but couldn’t manage to spot her. In seconds, they were stepping into the Chief’s office and being gestured into large leather chairs in front of his grand oak desk. The Chief shut the door behind them once they were seated and then strolled around to his even grander chair, slumping down into it and lifting his feet to loudly clump onto his desk, crossing his ankles and leaving them to stare at his muddy boot soles.

“So,” the Chief intoned, folding his fingers together over his stomach, “you’re here about Miss Shirley Stephens?”

“Yes,” Hosea said slowly, wringing his hands and resituating himself in the chair. “Now see, what happened yesterday was truly  _ awful, _ but for her far more than me, the poor girl. I don’t want anything done to her - just for you good boys in blue to let her go home.”

“That so,” the Chief drawled, looking from Hosea to Arthur with a raised, skeptical brow. “You want her back on the streets?”

“My Momma always believed in mercy and kindness, and this is what she’d want us to do if she were still with us,” Arthur said gently, looking up at the ceiling with a frown. Hosea followed suit, closing his eyes and placing his hand over his heart.

“Uh-huh,” the Chief said blandly, staring down his nose at them both. “Well, then, I reckon you gentlemen will be glad to hear that we already aren’t charging her with anything.”

Hosea heaved a sigh of relief. “Oh, good. So you let her go?”

The Chief snorted. “Hell, no. We transferred that hysterical bitch to an asylum last night.”

There was a beat of silence.

“What,” Arthur whispered, his voice almost a growl. He saw Hosea’s hand slowly curl into a fist in the corner of his vision.

“‘Miss’ Stephens has been a thorn in my side for a long while now,” the Chief drawled, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it, making both Arthur and Hosea lean back in their chairs. “Thinks herself a vigilante. And an ‘author.’ We’ve been constantly getting complaints of her stalking folk, disturbing the peace, harassing bounty hunters, always harkin’ on about how she thinks various folk are criminals in disguise.” He puffed on his cigarette a few seconds and then blew out a long stream of smoke. “Her trying to kill you in that marketplace was all we needed to institutionalize the hag, so you won’t have to worry about her anymore, and you can be rest assured she’s getting the… help, she needs.”

Arthur started coughing and Hosea sharply said, “Thank you for your time,” harshly grabbing Arthur by the arm and hauling him upright to pull him towards the door.

“Yu-p,” the Chief drawled, popping the last letter.

“Wait,” Arthur rasped, fighting to keep his mouth covered by his arm as his lungs spasmed while digging his heels in to prevent Hosea from dragging him out the door. He hacked wetly into his elbow, then managed, “Which asylum? An’ where does she live?”

“St. Dymphna’s Asylum,” the Chief said hesitantly, wrinkling his nose at his coughs. “And she lives in a tenement downtown in Old Colfax. Though not for much longer, I suppose. Heh.”

Arthur tipped his head at the man in thanks, then finally let Hosea haul him out of the precinct, through the foyer, and back out onto the street next to the horses, where he finally coughed out the rest of the irritants to his scarred lungs, supporting his weight on Killer.

“Well,” Hosea rasped, his own lungs whistling and rattling suspiciously. He let out a single cough. “This is just. Goddamn great.”

Arthur took a long minute to catch his breath, then swallowed and wiped his mouth on his sleeve. He turned his head to Hosea and asked, “What the hell we gonna do now?”

Hosea wet his lips, staring intensely at The Count’s saddlehorn where he rested his hands. Finally, he met Arthur’s gaze, slowly shaking his head. “…Nothing.”

“What do you mean ‘nothing’?” Arthur gruffed.

“I mean,  _ nothing,” _ Hosea repeated. He sighed and closed his eyes, slipping The Count’s reins from the rail and over his neck before lifting his foot into his stirrup and tiredly hauling himself into the saddle. “Look, Arthur, I barely wanted to do this before, but breaking the poor girl out of an asylum…” He side-eyed Arthur with a grave frown. “I ain’t playing chicken with the law no more. We’re not risking the heat. We’ve done all we could, so let’s just…” A visible wave of exhaustion washed over him. “…go home.”

Arthur raised an eyebrow at him and didn’t move to get in his own saddle. “You got the same knowledge of what goes on in asylums that I do?”

“All too well,” Hosea deadpanned, glaring down at him and narrowing his eyes slightly.

“Hosea,” Arthur said quietly, staring up at him with a wide-eyed glare of his own and a stern jaw. “We can’t let her rot in there.”

“You think I  _ want _ her in there?”

“Naw, but doing nothing when you can do  _ something-“ _

“Arthur,  _ there is nothing we can do.” _

Arthur glanced around them and then stepped closer to Hosea, grabbing his knee and leaning close to whisper “All those times you waltzed into jails with some booze to get them to let both of us walk right on out, and you can’t think of nothing like that?”

Hosea clasped a firm hand around his shoulder. “Arthur, I’d bust every last one of them out of the madhouse if I could, but I can’t directly afford to slip back into my old roguish charms doing feats of authority-defying charity like it’s the  _ ‘good old days.’ _ I got-“ Hosea lifted his hand to splay out and grab Arthur by the top of his head, bobbling it around in circles “-a boy with  _ tuberculosis _ to watch out for in a house I’m paying a  _ mortgage _ on in a city where the only thing stopping my ugly mug from being plastered on every promotional board like bounties in Blackwater is a full face of makeup and a wig, so no, Arthur, we’re not doing anything more, this is the end of the line, and we are going.  _ Home.” _

“Hosea!” Arthur barked, but Hosea was already backing The Count away from the rail and out of his reach. “You’re going to regret this, I  _ know you!” _

Hosea reined The Count around to face the direction of home. “I know what I’d regret  _ most,” _ Hosea said sharply, looking Arthur up and down with a hard frown and soft eyes. “Now come on.”

Arthur stared into Hosea’s eyes for a long moment, then took a deep breath, finally blinking and looking away to mount up on Killer. He followed Hosea through the streets once more, heading in the direction of home, and stared intently into the man’s back, his brow furrowed and eyes squinted, his mouth curved softly downwards.

_ Why you’re a good man… I just wish you’d done it before he worked himself into the grave. _

He refused to have any more of his own regrets.

\--

That same night, Arthur listened absently as Hosea and Hank puttered around downstairs, washing dishes from supper and joking around with each other and laughing while he sketched in his journal the stag that had been continually haunting his dreams for most of 1899. The creature returned to him in his dozing hazes between sleep and wakefulness since the incident in the marketplace yesterday, delicately stepping across an icy, snowy ridge, bathed in soft golden light, before turning to look at him, flicking an ear, and disappearing down the other side. Arthur was trying to capture the scene the best he could with his pencil, but the graphite was a sad comparison for the vision in his head. He couldn’t get the eyes right – he could never manage to capture the soul shining in them that felt like a reflection of himself.

His attention was drawn away when he heard a knock on the front door below, then heard Hosea’s and Hank’s voices explode in cheery greetings, met by Albert’s cheery  _ “Hello!” _ Arthur grinned and closed his journal, tucking it into his satchel as Hosea’s socked feet hurried up the steps so the man could rap on his door. “Albert’s here, Arthur, so you best get dressed and meet him downstairs – Hank and I are going to go ahead and head out so we can catch A Midsummer Night’s Dream, that all right?”

Arthur heaved himself out of bed and said “You old men have your fun and leave us be.”

Hosea snorted and stepped away towards his room to grab his coat while Arthur started pulling out a warm outfit for the cold night air. He paused to look over his shoulder as Hosea called “Love you!” and waved as he headed for the stairs, and he called back “Love ya!” with a wave of his own before starting to unbutton his pajama shirt.

Five minutes later, Arthur was fully dressed with his heavy coat over his shoulders, gingerly stepping down the stairs. Albert appeared at the bottom and beamed up at him, rocking up onto his tip-toes in his excitement as he called “Would you like some help, friend?”

“I got it,” Arthur chuckled at him, waving him off.

“I have been thinking about this night out for  _ weeks,” _ Albert gushed, skipping off towards his boots once Arthur reached the bottom of the stairs. “Where shall we go? The boardwalk?  _ Ooh-!” _ He darted upright to stare at Arthur with stars in his eyes after only putting one boot on. “A moving picture?!”

Arthur smiled warmly at him and stepped up closer to his side, putting a warm and heavy hand on his friend’s shoulder. “I was thinking more along the lines of breaking and entering.”

Albert laughed heartily and bent down to put his other boot on, but when he stood back up, Arthur was looking at him with the same expectant, earnest expression. Albert’s laugh dropped instantly as his expression snapped into shock. “Oh wait you’re serious.”

Arthur’s smile wilted slightly as he took a deep breath, stepping away from Albert to put his own boots on. “There’s this… woman…” he said haltingly, pulling his boots on over his pantlegs to protect them from the slush. “She attacked Hosea the other day. Said he killed her Ma. She got put in an asylum for it, and Hosea says there ain’t nothing we can do, but… I think differently.”

“Did he do it?” Albert asked suddenly.

Arthur blinked and stood up straight, fastening his coat around his front. “Huh?”

Albert tilted his head at him and awkwardly gestured. “Did Hosea really kill her mother?”

Arthur frowned and sighed, his expression softening as he looked at Albert. “Yeah. And I know he regrets it. We were all killers, Al, you know that already. But… we’re tryin’ to right our wrongs. You know?” The anxiety in Albert’s expression drained away, and hesitantly, he nodded. Arthur nibbled his lip slightly before looking around the house, at all the evidence of how lived-in it was, at the months-worth of memories of the both of them living honestly and earnestly. “I can’t let an innocent woman rot somewhere worse than prison, and I can’t let this fester in Hosea.” He met Albert’s eyes. “I got the chance to meet and make amends with some people I hurt. There’s plenty more folk where I can never get that chance, and countless more that our gang’s hurt that are beyond helping, but I can fix  _ this. _ I just… I need your help, Al. I know this is a lot to ask of you, but… we could save a woman from a whole lotta hurt who don’t deserve it.”

Albert swallowed, thickly, then dragged in a shuddering breath as he fiddled with his coat sleeve and averted his eyes. “Well…” He cleared his throat and squared his shoulders to look at Arthur again. “I have long fantasized about chucking dynamite at poachers and trophy hunters, so I suppose this is a far more noble cause for my first forays into crime!” He smiled warmly, then, and stepped forward to squeeze Arthur’s forearms. “Lead the way, friend.”

Arthur's eyes crinkled as he smiled back at his friend. "You're the best sort of friend a feller could have, you know that?"

Albert clapped Arthur's biceps and squeezed them with a little shake. "Only to you, Arthur. Only to you."

In no time at all, both men were mounted up on their horses and quickly trotting through the soft golden glow of Denver at night, passing by the electric lamps standing vigil on the city streets like two shadowy spectres, making their way towards the poor downtown neighborhood of Old Colfax.

“So,” Albert started once they got close, marked by the quality of the buildings rapidly degrading around them, the cobbled roads fading away into mixtures of dirt and gravel, “I take it we’re… not breaking this woman out of the asylum tonight, judging by how we appear to be riding… into a residential area?”

“It’s too risky,” Arthur replied over his shoulder, slowing Killer down so that Albert could ride closer. “In our gang, all the breakouts we ever done have been collaborative on both ends. We knew each other, we had a language for breakouts that we'd catch on to, and we'd case everything before making a move. This… Miss Stephens? I don't reckon we'll be gettin' any help from her at all, and if we really want to pull a con to get her out of there 'steada me holding them at gunpoint or blowing a hole in the place…" Arthur grimaced. "We need Hosea. And we need to know things about her. And I know that if Hosea knows things about her, then he won't be able to keep holding out."

"O-kay!" Albert said emphatically, bouncing slightly in his saddle in a way that made him unsync with his posting and pop up in a way that looked slightly painful. "We're like a pair of detectives! Or fine thieves!"

Arthur snorted. "Like lawmen or criminals. That's quite the comparison you got there."

"I don't see the difference most days."

Arthur smirked and side-eyed Albert the same moment Albert glanced at and grinned at him. They both quickly looked forward, again, their smiles falling as they looked at multiple blocks worth of tenement buildings - towering, rundown hovels of five to six floors, standing huddled together like cold bricks in the dark.

"All I know is she lives in one of these buildings," Arthur said warily. "Guess we should get to asking around."

Awkwardly lurking around the buildings, avoiding the suspicions of the law, and asking passersby if they were familiar with a Shirley Stephens proved an excruciatingly difficult and time consuming task. After an hour, they were on the last tenement in the neighborhood, rubbing their arms against the cold and peering up at the dark brick building, so tall it blotted out the stars.

"I sure hope this is it," Arthur grumbled. "C'mon. Let's try the door."

A test of the latch showed that it was locked, and Arthur let out a low growl of frustration that turned into a weak coughing fit, forcing him to lean against the wall of the building.

"Uh, Arthur?" Albert prompted anxiously. 

"M'fine," Arthur rasped, coughing up phlegm into his mouth that he almost spat onto the street before catching himself and forcing himself to swallow it down with a grimace.

"No, erm- I think there's a lady wanting inside," Albert said gingerly, ducking behind Arthur's back, and Arthur finally saw her - a middle-aged woman with sallow brown skin and curly black hair in a messy bun, wearing a plain stained gray work dress with a worn blue cardigan, standing across the street and pacing under the streetlight, looking at them with dark, wary eyes.

Arthur instantly stepped back away from the door and pulled himself in to look smaller with a gentle, "Sorry, Miss. We didn't mean to get in your way.” He tipped his brown hat.

Still eyeing them warily, the woman pulled her cardigan tighter around herself and hurried across the street to the door of the building, pulling out a key and slipping it into the lock. 

"Say, Ma'am…" Albert hedged, peeking out around Arthur’s side, "would you happen to know a Shirley Stephens?"

The woman almost had the door open, but slammed it shut and locked it in the blink of an eye, whirling on them. "Who wants to know?" she asked in a low, dry voice.

Albert and Arthur shared a look a second before Arthur removed his hat and held it respectfully over his stomach, worrying at its trim a little. “We… we know that she’s in trouble. That she got taken away to St. Dymphna’s. We wanna help her and get her home.”

The woman looked them up and down and scowled, deepening the stress wrinkles in her face. “What’s in it for you?”

“Knowing an innocent woman didn’t get her life ruined,” he said, quiet. “She was in the right. And we need to see her apartment to figure out how to get her out of that asylum.”

The woman stared at him for a long, heavy thirty seconds that left him with his heartbeat sounding in his ears. Finally, her expression relaxed somewhat, and she unlocked the door and gestured them inside. “Go on in then. Anyone who wants to help Shirley is a friend of mine. I’ll show you to our apartment.”

“Thank you, Ma’am,” Arthur said breathlessly, nodding at her and passing her before putting his hat back on his head, Albert tipping his own hat at her with a warm smile before following behind. The woman entered last, closing the tenement door securely behind her before looking at them both and gesturing her head further down the corridor, beginning to walk. They both studiously followed.

The tenement building itself was everything that Dutch’s books described in damning detail and railed against with all the venom of a copperhead. Yellow, water-stained walls and dirt-crusted floors in the light of sickly-orange wall lamps guided them further into the dark building, and the stairwell reeked of piss. They walked past a mousetrap with a decomposing mouse in it on the second floor flat, and Arthur had to pull up his scarf to cough out the discomfort of the smoky air from lingering cigarettes.

“May I ask your name, Miss?” Albert prompted as they approached the third floor, placing a light hand on Arthur’s back as he coughed. “Mine is Albert Mason. My poor friend here is Arthur.”

The woman looked over her shoulder at them as they finished climbing the steps. “Nancy. Nancy Jimenez. I’m Shirley’s roommate and… only… friend. We work at the launder’s together.”

Nancy stopped at the first door on the right and took out her keys again, shuffling through them until she found the right one and inserted it into the lock, pushing it open and switching the flickering lights on before stepping back to look at them in the low light. At the sight of their questioning faces, she nodded her head towards the doorway. “Her bedroom is the first door you see there. My bedroom’s next to it further in - don’t go in there.”

“That’s mighty kind of ya,” Arthur murmured, dipping his head at her in respect before slowly stepping through the threshold into the tenement apartment, closing his hand around Miss Stephens’s bedroom doorknob and opening it.

It was too dark to see much of anything, at first - he could only truly make out a whole thick mess of clutter and papers and clothes littering the floor, and as Arthur fumbled around the room looking for any lamps to turn on or lanterns to light, he heard Albert behind him say, "You know, Miss Jimenez, I live in a tenement myself back in Boston - a barbell layout, just like yours! However, I must say, there’s no lock on the outside door. That’s mighty peculiar. Is there a story behind it, perhaps?”

Arthur continued fumbling through the dark, then finally found a lantern. He fished around in his satchel for his matches as he listened to Miss Jimenez answer, “Shirley invites… a whole host of trouble. Bad men. Bounty hunters who think they’re  _ all that, _ or worse, criminals or intimidation men, sent here to try and scare and hurt her. She also has an ex-husband. A foul…  _ physical,  _ man. Then there’s me. I lead the Union at our launders. A lot of the women in this building are Union members, too. The strikebreakers and their spies… sometimes they try and sneak into folks’ homes. Mr. Bates was shot in front of his wife and children in a building not too far from here. A bunch of us pooled our funds to add a lock to the door.”

“That thing is useless,” Arthur said quietly from inside Shirley’s room, finally finding his matchbook and striking a match. “Any determined, healthy man could bust that thing down with a good kick, and the fire escape makes it redundant for anyone strong enough to break glass.” He slowly, carefully lit the lantern, then shook out his match and lowered the glass.

“I know,” Miss Jimenez said dully. “But sometimes we just wanna sleep at night.”

Arthur all at once felt sick that he and Hosea kept their windows wide open.

“I’ll be in the living room,” Miss Jimenez said. “Let me know if you need anything, Mr. Mason. Mr. Morgan.”

Arthur snapped his head up to look into Miss Jimenez’s exhausted brown eyes as Albert startled at her side. “You know my name, too?” Arthur asked warily, the hair on the nape of his neck slowly rising to stand on end.

Miss Jimenez simply gestured behind him, prompting Albert to properly step into the room, where he instantly turned pale and wide-eyed.

Arthur picked up the lantern and turned around. His mouth popped open as soon as he did.

Because there, encompassing the entire far wall, were legions upon legions of bounty posters and photographs and newspaper clippings, all spiraling around a worn map of the United States in the center, all bound together by pins and a web of red string, a cataclysmic spectrum of beiges and grays and off-white papers, streaked with scarlet.

A few bounty posters were of  _ him _ \- his face sat clear as day on the walls, underneath the bold name of  _ Arthur Morgan. _

There were also bounty posters of Dutch - he spotted one for Sean, and another for Jenny. Annabelle’s face peeked out from behind several layers of newer papers. Nausea bubbled uneasily up from his stomach when the sickly orange light showed Dutch’s, Sean’s, Jenny’s, and Annabelle’s faces all covered in thick black  _ Xs. _

The most common bounty posters were of Hosea - dating back all the way past from before Arthur even knew the man.

Slowly, Arthur turned to look at Miss Jimenez again, his voice locked in his throat. She met his gaze with knowing eyes, older than her age and half cast in shadow. She shrugged. “You never hurt her. And Saints don’t care about people like Shirley. If I so much as commit a misdemeanor to help her, they’ll sic hitmen on my Union. The only person who can help her now is a sinner.”

Arthur eyed her warily. “We’re trying to get out of the ‘sinning’ business,” he murmured.

“Then don’t help her,” Miss Jimenez answered evenly. “Ain't like she can lose much more than she already has.”

And at that, Miss Jimenez moved further into the apartment, leaving them alone. 

“Good heavens, this is…” Albert started warily, stepping through the sea of clutter on the floor to slowly spin himself around and take in the papers and maps pinned all over the walls, “some… dedicated work.” The other three walls seemed dedicated to regional criminals.

Arthur slowly approached the large map at the center of the wall dedicated to his gang and frowned at the pins and the string that bound them.  _ Ohio. Tennessee. Illinois. Missouri. Kansas. Texas. Nevada. California. Montana. West Elizabeth. Ambarino. New Hanover. Lemoyne. Grizzlies East. _ Each pin marked the location of a state or region where they’d hid out, and some - like the pins for their camp outside Blackwater, Colter, Horseshoe Overlook, Clemen’s Point, and Hosea’s old homestead were precisely marked. He followed the string out from the homestead and found a newspaper clipping tacked to the wall. Gingerly, he reached up and read it.

_ VAN DER LINDE GANG ESCAPES CAPTURE _ screamed the headline, above a grainy black and white photograph of the smoking ruins of the house and barn on either side of the scorched yard and melted ruins of wagons and tents. Below it, the text read,  _ A raid on the hideout of the ruthless Van der Linde Gang by the Pinkerton Detective Agency led by agents Andrew Milton and Edgar Ross ended in ruins on the night of July 31st. No members of the cult-like gang of anti-American agitants were killed or apprehended, with most fleeing North, while co-founder and leader Hosea Matthews  _ (Arthur noted with a frown that Hosea’s name was violently underlined and circled in ink) _ escaped last seen heading Westward with notorious murderer Arthur Morgan and an unknown man of seeming negro or Indian heritage. The fiends escaped by igniting a weaponized wagon of explosives and engaging a shootout, wounding several men and horses, including Milton and Ross, though only one death was reported - an ex-Van der Linde turned informant and patriot, Micah Bell III. Multiple posses of Pinkertons and bounty hunters have been sent northward to track and hunt the escaped members of the gang, while Milton and Ross pursue Matthews and Morgan. Cornwall Kerosene & Tar offers a $12,000 bounty for the killing or capture of Matthews and $10,000 of Morgan. Please contact the Pinkerton Detective Agency for any possible sightings at... _

Arthur took a slow, deep breath, then backed away from the newspaper clipping, shaking his head. “Christ…” he muttered, before following a different line of string from Lemoyne to another newspaper clipping.  _ MASSACRE IN SAINT DENIS; DUTCH VAN DER LINDE KILLED. _ Below was a picture of the collapsed and burned bank, and then next to it-

A broken, pained noise slipped out of Arthur’s throat as he stared at Dutch’s bloodied, shot-up body stood in a pinewood coffin with his arms crossed over his chest, his eyes still open, as Agent Milton stood at its side, leaning an elbow on it and smiling sharply at the camera with dark crinkled eyes like he was some kind of perverted trophy hunter, Agent Ross standing smugly across from him smoking a cigar, both men flanked by multiple lines of posing Pinkerton gunmen.

Arthur ripped the paper down from the wall and tore it into shreds with shaking hands, releasing the confetti to the floor before slumping against the wall, his lungs tickling and seizing and sending him coughing wetly into his sleeve as pain shot through his lungs and throat.

“Arthur?” Albert fussed, coming up behind him to firmly rub his back. He leaned half-into Arthur’s vision, his expression deeply creased with worry, his wide eyes glittering in the dim yellow light. “Arthur? Are you quite all right?”

Arthur roughly worked a wad of phlegm up from his throat and swallowed it, shuddering. “Y… Yeah…” he rasped, a shiver slowly starting to take root in his body. “Think we might need to hurry this up. Try and… try and look for any information on Miss Stephens and Hosea.”

“Of course,” Albert said quickly, rubbing his back before stepping away to peruse through a collection of papers in a box. Arthur took a few long, deep breaths, screwed his eyes shut, then pushed through the pain to refocus on the board.

Enough of 1899. He needed to find things before 1877.

His eyes quickly fell on a bounty poster of Hosea’s youthful face a ways off down the wall, looking like he wasn’t much older than his early 20s - his facial sketch perfectly captured the angles and smooth slopes of his face, along with his light carefully groomed hair, but his eyes and mouth looked… distinctly  _ mean, _ heavily shaded with dark crosshatching. Above and below the sketch of Hosea’s face, the poster read,  _ WANTED, DEAD or ALIVE: HOSEA MATTHEWS, for ROBBERY and MURDER of a SINGLE MOTHER, ORPHANING a YOUNG GIRL while she WATCHED in HORROR. Last seen fleeing NORTHWEST towards PHILADELPHIA. _

With a heavy frown, Arthur carefully untacked the poster from the wall and folded the ancient yellowed paper to carefully slip into his satchel. He scanned his eyes around more, then spotted a faded newspaper clipping from August of 1869, with the headline  _ MURDER IN MIRIAMVILLE; WIDOW SLAIN IN FRONT OF DAUGHTER. _ Arthur furrowed his brow and stepped closer to read the words beneath. 

_ In the early dawn hours of Tuesday, a great commotion arose from the Stephens estate when postal worker Jefferson Newman heard a gunshot from the neighboring property. Upon arriving at the home of Eleanor Stephens and her daughter, he witnessed a man fleeing on the family’s horse heading northwest. Upon entering the abode, Eleanor Stephens, widow of Colonel Jeremiah Stephens and heiress to the Claymore family fortune, was found dead with a bullet within her forehead, laying prone on the floor of her foyer next to her husband’s shotgun. Newman ran to retrieve the Sheriff, and after a thorough investigation by Sheriff Jacobs and his deputies, the Stephens’s lone daughter, Shirley Stephens, age 6, was found hiding behind a piece of furniture in shock. The Stephens and Claymore family fortune was found missing from the estate’s safe, a sum of $6,000 in bonds and gold. Anyone with information about this heinous crime is urged to contact the Miriamville Sheriff’s Office immediately. _

Arthur’s breathing shifted as he swayed on his feet, rubbing at his eyes after he stopped squinting to read in the dim light. “Lord…” he breathed. “Our whole damn lives is one big mess.” With a shake of his head, he untacked the newspaper clipping from the wall and carefully folded it like he did the bounty poster, slipping it into his satchel before turning to Albert. 

Distant echoes played behind his eyes of a young black boy staring at him in terror where he hid under his bed as his father lay dead a few rooms away, shot to death with a chest full of lead.

Did Isaac also hide behind a piece of furniture?

“Albert,” Arthur said uneasily, his voice trembling and breaking. “I think I’ve had about enough of this place. You done?”

Silence.

Arthur slowly blinked and forced his eyes to focus on Albert’s back where the man stood straight and rigid off to the side of the room, staring down at a small table, stock-still.

“Al?” Arthur prompted softly. Slowly, he stepped up to the man’s side, bringing the lantern-light closer to see what he was staring at.

And there, sitting on top of the mess of clutter on the table, was a spread of newspapers and photographs, all of them - pictures… of bodies. Laying in pools on the ground or lined up in coffins. He recognized a massive line of Pinkerton corpses in Saint Denis. There were also scores of dead Grays lined up in the main street of Rhodes, near a photo of Braithewaite manor, left in smoking ruins and littered by scores of corpses. He recognized the muddy streets of Valentine, similarly littered by the bloodied bodies of lawmen. An ungodly line of bodies sat strewn down the main road of Strawberry, lawmen and civilians alike, and a little further away he saw bodies laying in the streets of Blackwater, dark blood flowing in a small stream through the dirt road.

Arthur’s expression crumpled even more, and he raised a hand to rest on Albert’s back - only for the man to flinch away.

“Al…” Arthur said quietly.

Albert remained silent for a long, deafening moment, quivering slightly. “All these…  _ people…” _ he breathed. “I… I knew what you were, Arthur, I always knew, and I… I never judged you for it, because… you’re… endlessly kind, and giving, and you saved my life and gave me gentle company while asking for nothing in return, but…” He slowly picked up a picture and squinted down at the littered corpses captured within it, his lips parted in a constant wince. “Photographs… are the truest way to capture our world. They’re not approximations. They’re… the very souls of the creatures they contain. And I’m staring at…  _ real… human beings… _ human  _ bodies… _ dead… that you…” Albert sucked in a shaking breath and held it, then quickly let it out, his fingers spasming open to drop the photograph. “Knowing… and seeing… are two different things.”

Arthur took a long, uneasy breath, letting it out with a harsh wheeze. “Look… Albert-”

“I need fresh air, I’m sorry,” Albert said quickly, brushing past Arthur and running out the apartment door, the door to the stairwell opening and slamming a second later.

Arthur was left standing in the sickly, lingering silence, his face slowly coloring with hues of red as his eyes stung. He opened up the lantern and blew out the light.

“Ma’am?” Arthur prompted gently, removing his hat once more as he stepped into the living room. Miss Jimenez warily eyed him where she sat in a worn padded armchair, a revolver resting on the skirt of her dress. Arthur blinked at it, then slowly lifted his gaze up to Miss Jimenez’s bloodshot eyes.

Her expression hardened. “Get her out,” she said quietly. “And if you step foot back here again… I’ll kill you. And if you harm a single hair on Shirley’s head…?” Arthur set his jaw as Jimenez settled her face into a scowl. “Gangs have been trying to offer my Union a partnership for years. The only thing that’s stopped me from accepting their offer is Shirley. If she doesn’t return to my side… I’ll partner with whatever gang brings me the head of you and your friend. Do you understand?”

They held each other’s gaze for a long moment.

“I understand,” Arthur said softly. “I’m sorry this happened. Thank you for allowing us into your home, and… I’ll bring her back, Ma’am. You have my word.”

“You have one week,” Miss Jimenez whispered. “Now get out of my home.”

Arthur didn’t need to be told twice. Putting his hat back on his head and slowly tipping it, he turned and walked out the door, firmly shutting it behind him.

The cold night air hit Arthur like a train as soon as he stepped out of the front door of the tenement, his body already weakened from the strain of climbing and standing and descending the stairs, and it was a simple thing for his lungs to start spasming and for his strength to leave him, sending him crashing down to his knees on the sidewalk as coughs wracked his chest, wetly tearing out of his lungs as he coughed into his sleeve, ragged claws of pain raking out of his lungs and through this throat, ending in dark splatters misting out onto the fabric of his coat and causing tears to leak out of his eyes.

“Arthur! Arthur, I’ve got you!”

Chubby, soft hands slid around him to prop him upright, and the next thing he knew, he was being leant back against Albert’s chest, the man anxiously begging, “Careful! Careful! Breathe, friend, oh, good heavens! There there!”

Arthur finally hacked out the last of the fluid in his lungs and roughly cleared his throat, slumping in the hold of his friend as violent shivers tremored through his body, sapping all the strength from his muscles as white flickered at the edges of his vision from the pain. “Al…?”

“I’m here, I’m here!  _ Oh _ I should have never agreed to this, if you relapse again I will  _ never forgive myself-!” _

“Al…” Arthur managed weakly. He huffed a pained laugh and gestured his head towards their horses. “Thought you’d be halfway to Saint Lewis by now.”

“And leave you?  _ Never,” _ Albert responded, instantly. 

“Even though I’m a killer?” Arthur rasped.

That same, ill silence settled over them again like hot humid air in the clean thin cold. Albert frowned and absently rubbed his back, his brow knitting into an uneasy knot. “I can’t just… get over… all the lives that you and Hosea h-have…  _ murdered, _ Arthur,” Albert said slowly, his voice shaking as much as Arthur’s body was, “but I can’t just… get over our friendship or your goodness, either. I’m… oh, heavens, I’m- I don’t know how to feel about  _ any  _ of it.”

Arthur slowly nodded, clearing his throat again. “...I never… ever wanted to… to subject you to anything, Al,” he said quietly. “If you wanna get the Hell outta here… I won’t hold it against ya.” He shuddered as he tried desperately to catch his breath. When Albert made no move and said no word, save to keep rubbing his back, he waited until he managed two decent breaths before he continued, “We were all just a bunch of… a bunch of ruined folk… scorned folk… taken in by Dutch, ‘cause... he was the best place we could be. In the gang, we were… safe, and- a-and fed, and… accepted. And loved. We were a family. And according to Dutch, we were… we were livin’ free. And killin’ wasn’t a part of that. Or at least… not at first. Killin’ folk... was a last resort, and we grieved it when it happened. And then, at… at some point… we stopped grievin’. And killin’ became part of the job, instead of… a failure.” He closed his eyes and shook his head. “And I… I’ve killed a lot of folk, for a lot of dumb reasons… and I ain’t never took no pleasure in it, Al.” Slowly, he opened his eyes and met Albert’s gaze. “And I’m done with it now. That ain’t my life no more. I’m  _ done, _ and I grieve all the lives I took, and I’m payin’ for it. My God, we’ve  _ all  _ paid for it.” He swallowed. “I’m done,” he finished, his voice barely above a whisper.

Albert's brow furrowed into a deeper knot. "And I believe you, I- I  _ trust you _ when you say that," Albert said quickly, his eyes wide and earnest in the mixture of warm lamplight and cool moonlight, glistening in the cataclysm of blues and reds. "But I… oh, goodness have mercy, I look at you, Arthur, and I see a good man, a kind man, a man who deserves the world because he treats the world and all its creatures around him with such profound respect... a man who I fell in  _ love with, _ for Pete's sake!" Albert shrieked. His expression crumpled and his voice softened. "And yet… all this time, of knowing, and not… caring… I- Oh, Arthur, I'm scared that I'm a bad person if I want you to remain free and happy, and I’m scared that I’m a bad person for being upset at you, and I know you regret it and that you’ve suffered but I feel a fool for writing off so many lives because I love you and I-" his voice cut out as he turned away and broke down into tears.

They both sat there for a long while - Albert, his knees pulled tightly into his chest, crying quietly into his arms as Arthur sat staring out at the street, huddled into his coat, running his fingers over, under, through, over, under, through each other as the occasional tear slid down in a lazy line to break and lose itself in his stubble.

“Am I in danger?” Albert whispered, once his crying eased into nothing.

“Not from me,” Arthur said quietly. “And not from Hosea.  _ Never. _ But the kinds of folk who are after us… The Law, I-” Arthur choked slightly and coughed out his discomfort, dragging his hands down his face. He took a deep breath. “Yes.” A beat. “Maybe it’d be best if you got far away from here, Mr. Mason.”

Albert stayed silent for a long minute.

Then, there was an audible swallow, a sniff, and a firm exhale. “Well,” Albert said, his voice thick. “I’ve already willingly dedicated my life to danger out of love.” Arthur immediately straightened at that, turning so fast to look at Albert’s face that he got slightly dizzy, and the expression that he was met with was the same one of soft appreciation and love that the man wore while looking at him so often before. “You once saved my life from the wolves gathered around me, so… who am I if I do not save you from your own wolves?”

“Al-” Arthur said immediately “-I don’t want you getting between me and any consequences for my own actions. I  _ never  _ wanted that. You understand? It was already a mistake getting you involved in this-”

“Well  _ I _ choose to help,” Albert countered, his voice gaining strength and surefootedness with each additional word as he shifted to grab Arthur from under his shoulders, “and I’m going to start-!” he heaved upwards with a deep guttural grunt “-with getting you-!  _ HOME!”  _

Arthur did his best to help Albert heave his shivering, weakened body back up onto his feet, slinging his arm around Albert’s shoulders as the man skidded his boots across the stone of the street to support his weight. “We can’t go straight back,” he rasped. “We have to weave around the city a bit first. That woman has connections we don’t even know about, and I ain’t drawing a map for her to our house.”

“Well!” Albert huffed, starting to ease him towards Killer. “You make my life very exciting, dear friend, very exciting indeed!” He got Arthur to Killer’s saddle, and Arthur leaned against his horse for a good moment - giving the stallion a soft smile when his boy looked at him with a big worried eye - before hefting his foot into the stirrup, hauling himself upright onto the thoroughbred’s back with a helpful shove by Albert.

Arthur settled on the back of Killer and patted him firmly on the neck a few times as Albert moved away to swing up onto the back of his own horse. He looked up, then, as the man settled and took the reins in hand, turning to look at him with a sure smile, his face still ruddy and tear-stained from his crying.

“You’re treatin’ me with more than I deserve,” Arthur said, quietly. 

Albert turned his horse into the street and rode up to Arthur’s side, clapping him firmly on the shoulder. “You are a good man, Arthur Morgan,” Albert said firmly, “and I love that man. As my friend, as your brother, as whatever you’ll have me as. And maybe justice says you should hang for what you’ve done, and maybe progress means leveling the forests and slaughtering its animals. Maybe I’m a backwards fool, but I don’t see any justice or progress in those things. Untouched wilderness? Living in peace among it? What better progress is there than that? And you- you’re…” Albert slid his hand down from Arthur’s shoulder along the outside of his elbow to take his hand, and both men’s eyes softened and warmed as they looked at each other. “You’ve already changed,” Albert said firmly. “And I believe you deserve a second chance.”

The corners of Arthur’s eyes crinkled, and he opened his mouth to say something, only for his voice to die in his throat. He bit his lip and nodded, breaking their gaze to blink down at Killer’s ears. Albert squeezed his hand once more and let go, and they both rode off into the night.

\--

Seeing The Count and Hank’s horse hitched to the front of the house as they rode up didn’t bode well.

“Ah, hell,” Arthur muttered, “I didn’t think they’d be back yet.”

“...Are we in trouble?” Albert asked quietly.

“Oh, yeah.”

Sure enough, when Arthur opened up the front door, still violently shivering and supported by Albert’s shoulder, Hosea snapped his head up and lunged up out of the kitchen chair where he’d been sharing a tea with Hank, storming towards him and snapping “Where have you been?! You two were supposed to only be out for an hour, and it’s been  _ well past that-!” _

“You and I need to talk,” Arthur said quietly, his voice low and firm as Hosea took up his other shoulder. “In private.” Hosea’s expression instantly snapped into something quiet and steely, and he gave a single nod.

Hank slowly rose from his chair and peered at them, anxiously brushing the hair from his wig out of his eyes. “Is everything all right, honey?”

Hosea glanced at his friend and shook his head. "Hank, it's best you head on home, I'll see you tomorrow. Mr. Mason, help me get him up these stairs, would you please?"

Hank bit his lip, but nodded and moved towards his coat as Hosea and Albert moved Arthur towards the stairs. In a few tedious minutes, Arthur was being half-carried through the doorway to his bedroom and sat down upon his bed, where Hosea immediately began undressing him and feeling his forehead, muttering, "This is becoming a pattern, Mr. Mason."

"I assure you we were out for a good cause," Albert said firmly.

Hosea paused at that, standing up straight and eyeing Albert up and down. He looked back at Arthur with a severe frown. "Is this 'private business' something Albert needs to sit in on?"

Arthur and Albert exchanged a look. Slowly, Arthur slid his gaze back to Hosea. "It involves you, Hosea. And it's… sensitive. It's your choice."

Hosea's eyes narrowed at that, but when he looked back at Albert, his expression quickly softened. "I consider you part of the family at this point, son, and you've done so much for my boy here. You also seem to know whatever the hell this thing is already, so stay, leave, I don't give a damn." He reached out a hand and tucked Arthur's hair behind his ear. "I'm gonna run down and get you a glass of milk, then we'll talk, then you're  _ going to bed, _ all right?"

"Yes,  _ Pa," _ Arthur drawled, rolling his eyes.

Hosea paled for a moment, then nodded quickly and left the room, his socked feet rapidly descending the stairs with the gentle sighs of wood. 

When the man returned, Arthur was holding both the bounty poster and the newspaper in his hands as Albert sat at his side. Hosea froze in the doorway and blinked at the papers, then slowly met Arthur’s eyes. Arthur stared him down. 

With slow, wary steps, Hosea set the glass of milk down on Arthur’s nightstand and pulled the chair he kept in the room closer to the bed, sitting down into it with a heavy slump. Without a word, Arthur held up the bounty poster and turned it to face the man. “Look familiar?” he asked quietly.

“Where did you get this?” was Hosea’s reply, each word enunciated sharper than a knife. He snatched the poster and glanced down at it, his expression twisting into something pained each time he did.

“Not important. Here.” Arthur held out the newspaper clipping to Hosea and ordered, “Read it.”

Hosea’s upper lip was twitching, but he plucked the newspaper clipping out of Arthur’s hand and started reading it, his jaw clenched tight. Arthur watched as Hosea blinked, his eyes coming back decidedly more wet than they’d been before. 

“I…” Albert started uneasily, his voice barely more than a squeak, “I… have something, too.” And with that, Albert carefully opened his own satchel, removing an old black and white portrait of Eleanor Stephens, sitting regally in a chair in a fine gown, her light eyes staring at the camera with dignified grace, her curled black hair pulled up in a neat bun as her young daughter sat in her lap, smiling at the camera with long loose black hair and a chubby-cheeked grin.

Hosea’s breath punched out of his chest, and his face crumpled.

“Hosea…” Arthur said quietly, where they all sat in the shelter of their home, swaddled in soft golden light and familiarity, “I know what you did. And I don’t judge you for it. But  _ that little girl-” _ he forcefully pointed at Shirley, her face full of light and a child’s innocence “-is a  _ woman, _ now. And you took her Mama and her money from her. And now, she’s losing her  _ life  _ because of you, too.”

“Arthur-” Hosea choked out. He turned the photo over, finally freeing his bloodshot eyes to look up at them both. “I can’t…  _ risk-” _

“I did the math,” Arthur continued. “She was six in 1869 when you made her an orphan. That means she was born in 1863. The same year I was born.” Hosea covered his mouth with his hand and hung his head. Arthur frowned softly at him and gently grabbed Albert’s knee. “Hosea... if living safe means letting people like her suffer, then I don’t want any part of it.”

Hosea closed his eyes and breathed for a long minute. Eventually, he started nodding his head - first in hesitant, shallow movements, before slowly nodding into something resolute, wiping at his eyes and looking up at them both. “Albert,” he said roughly, “I need you to trust me when I say that I ain’t that man anymo-”

“I know,” Albert said easily, his cheeks and ears a deep, splotchy red where he sat stiffly with his hands between his knees at Arthur’s side. “I’ve seen you and Arthur, Mr. Matthews. I know.”

Hosea’s expression broke again and he turned to face away, looking down one more time at the bounty poster, the newspaper, and the photo before rising from his chair and setting them down, moving across the room to kick the wall with a rough  _ “GOD- dammit!” _ He rested his weight on a forearm against the wall, and Albert shifted uneasily, lifting a worried hand towards him only for Arthur to hold his arm out and still him. Hosea stood, his shoulders quivering, then dragged in a deep, rattling breath, straightening up and rolling his neck with a  _ crack. _ “One more… heist. Just one more. Not for money, but to save…  _ her.” _

“And you need to  _ talk  _ to her afterward,” Arthur pressed, leaning forward. “You know about  _ teshuvah  _ as well as I, Hosea. You  _ need  _ to  _ talk  _ to her.”

“I know about goddamn  _ teshuvah,” _ Hosea gruffed, running his hand through his hair before turning back to look at him. “But if I’m doing this, I’m doing this alone.”

“No,” Arthur stated simply. “I won’t let you.”

“And I want to help!” Albert chirped.

Hosea squinted at them both like they’d grown two heads. “Arthur, you’re sick, and there’s no way in Hell I’m taking you on a job, and Albert- do you even have a criminal record, son?”

Albert wrung his hands and shrilly said, “No, but I’m willing to start one!”

Hosea opened his mouth to respond to that, but Arthur interrupted with, “Hosea, come on. You don’t have to do this alone. I’m cleared to go out and do light work and I know you’ll take care of Albert. Don’t carry this yourself.”

Silence settled in the room as Hosea stood with his hands on his hips, staring at the floor.

“I’d… hate to see what kind of man I’d be without you, Arthur,” Hosea said quietly. He finally lifted his head and walked closer, hugging Arthur’s head to his stomach as Albert softly beamed at them both. “You always keep me honest.”

Arthur gently laughed and hugged Hosea around the small of the man’s back. “You raised me to be honest, old man.”

Hosea gently tousled Arthur’s hair, then stepped away, taking a deep breath. “In three days. We’ll hit St. Dymphna’s in three days. Arthur, you  _ rest, _ and get your strength back. Albert? You feel like doing some reconnaissance with me?”

Albert shared a look with Arthur and took a deep breath, giving him an uneasy grin and two thumbs up. “Sign me up!”

All of their laughter cracked off the walls of the room as Arthur and Hosea both clapped Albert on the shoulders.

\--

“Oh, good heavens… Ohhhhh, good heavens… Oh, good heavens...”

“Shh!”

Arthur kept his expression hard as marble and perfectly neutral as he drove the supply wagon down the long driveway to St. Dymphna’s Asylum - the building looked closer to a castle than a hospital, towering four stories tall with small spires in the center and on its corners, built out of cold gray stone and full of dark barred windows. It was everything Arthur feared when it was first suggested he be sent to a sanatorium - a prison in all but name.

“Ho, there!” called a guard in the yard, approaching them at a brisk pace. “What have you got there?” 

Arthur tipped his flat cap at the man and roughly coughed for a few seconds before grinding out, “Medical supplies, Mister.”

The guard sidled away from him immediately and turned his head away from his face, stepping closer to the wagon to ask, “So it’s fine if I look under this canvas, then?”

“Have a look,” Arthur shrugged with a gesture. The guard frowned, then tossed back the canvas - showing nothing but a collection of boxes covered in the word  _ medical  _ with various brand names.

“All right, carry on,” the guard gruffed, flinging the canvas back over the wagon and backing away. “Bring it around back.”

“Yessir,” Arthur said easily, flicking the reins to the rump of Hank’s horse as the Breton started pulling the wagon again, trotting easily around the side of the asylum and into the dark shade of the building behind, pulling up to a stop behind the back doors. Arthur looked around, and as soon as he was sure the coast was clear, he reached back and pounded on the wood - two knocks.

A soft rustling of wood sounded from under the canvas, mixed with a mess of grunts and other effort noises as two figures clambered out the back and jumped down into the gravel. Hosea, dressed in a full nurse’s outfit, furiously straightened and wiped off his skirts as Albert, dressed as a custodian, looked wildly around with wide, bugged eyes. 

_ Twenty minutes _ Hosea mouthed at Arthur as he took Albert by the shoulder and escorted him up the back steps. Arthur nodded, then clambered down off the wagon, leaning back against it to wait.

All was quiet as time passed, save for the singing from the birds or the occasional scream from someone inside. Arthur did his best not to let his nerves get to him too much, and instead took out his journal to sketch the foreboding, snarling building, holding the folk condemned to it in its iron grip.

It didn’t seem long at all after that before Albert came out wheeling a laundry cart, gently easing it down the steps with deep grunts of effort that made Arthur rush to help him. Together, the two men quickly pushed the cart around to the back of the wagon, and counting down from three, the two of them heaved the canvas basket up and into the back of the wagon. Albert quickly moved away and Arthur stepped hurriedly back into the driver’s seat, exchanging a small salute with Albert as the shorter man stepped back inside, looking pale and slightly nauseous. Arthur flicked the reins once, twice, thrice with a stern “Hyah!”

By the time they rounded around the other side of the building to run towards the front at a slow canter, the front doors burst open - releasing a thick, flowing river of so-called “lunatics” that had been trapped behind the building’s walls, rushing out into freedom at a full sprint, some screaming, some laughing, most panting open-mouthed as they all ran as fast as they could towards the surrounding hills, and just as the paltry handful of guards shook off their shock and started rushing folk, an explosion went off inside the building, blowing out one room’s glass and consuming it in flames: the records archives, bearing all the proof that any of these people were ever there.

Arthur followed the plan and left Hosea and Albert behind to instead gallop the wagon out of there and weave through the crowd to race them back towards the city limits of Denver, carrying his cargo past fenceposts and trees and telegram lines into the city’s poorer district, slowing Hank’s poor horse down to a trot again to appear less suspicious once they got back onto the city’s dirt roads. They traveled for another ten minutes before he pulled the wagon into the abandoned warehouse they agreed upon as their rendezvous point and pulled the Breton to a stop with a low “whoa.”

The stallion panted for breath and stamped at the ground as Arthur climbed down off of the wagon and onto the filthy concrete floor. He stepped up close to the side of the wagon, took a slow breath, and said, “There’s a change of clothes in the wagon with you, Ma’am, if you wanna get out of that gown they gave you. I promise I won’t look - I’ll be right over here, staring at the wall until you’re ready.”

Arthur walked away and stood a respectable distance from the wagon, then, crossing his hands in front of him and taking a deep breath as he studiously ignored the rustling of clothes behind him as Miss Stephens changed. He checked his pocket watch to eye the time - Hosea was supposed to show up in no more than ten minutes.

“So what is this,” came a throaty, dry woman’s voice behind him as the rustling continued. It was unrecognizable from the murderous, hysterical scream Arthur knew her as. “You pair of… ‘gentlemen outlaws’ give a Lady some final decency, before you uh… heh… kill me? Silence my loose end? Wouldn’t want me going to the  _ Law, _ now, huh? Or maybe you broke me out to try and bargain?”

Arthur shook his head where he faced the wall. “No, Ma’am. We got you out because you don’t deserve to be punished for being a victim.”

“Tell that to your mass graves.”

Arthur ticced his head in a  _ fair  _ gesture. 

“I’m ready, by the way. If you’re done pretending you’re not a pervert.”

Arthur slowly turned around to face Miss Stephens where she stood in front of the wagon, now wearing a new gray coat over a white blouse and plain blue skirt in a pair of short black boots. She stood about as tall as Hosea, pale and wiry with thick corded muscles making up the bulk of her arms. Her black hair was mussed and slightly tangled where it hung off her head and over her shoulders, half-obscuring the deep discolored circles under her eyes, forming two sickly purple crescent moons. Her sapphire blue eyes were sharp and boring into Arthur’s like if she stared at him hard enough he’d drop dead, her upper lip slightly curled up into a sneer.

“Where’s Matthews?” she growled.

“He’s coming,” Arthur soothed, holding up his hands and hunching down slightly to make himself smaller. “Here in a few minutes.” Stephens’s hands curled into fists and Arthur added, “To talk to you. To give you the chance to speak with him. Ask him questions. And if you don’t want that, he wanted me to tell you that you’re free to leave before he shows up. You don’t have to see him.”

“Oh, I want to see him all right,” Stephens said lowly, her voice a deep-seated hiss rumbling out of her chest with more venom than a copperhead as she started to pace. “I want to see that snake…”

Arthur eyed her carefully and drifted over to the wagon, hoisting himself up to sit on the wood. “Are you hungry, Ma’am? Thirsty? We got some things-”

“I won’t take nothing from you, you sick bastard.”

Arthur shrugged again in a  _ fair  _ gesture. “All right.”

Silence settled in the warehouse as Arthur sat and Stephens continued to pace.

“Was that fat man with you? The nervous one?”

Arthur snorted, softly. “Yeah. He was with us.”

Stephens’s face twisted in disgust as she sped up her pacing. “He part of your gang?”

“No. No, he ain’t. And we don’t run as a gang no more. We just… we just want to be a family.”

Before Arthur was even done talking, Stephens started laughing - a deep, dry, humorless thing that hissed out of her bared teeth.

“A ‘family’...” she drawled. “A  _ ‘family’ _ of outlaws! Oh, that’s cute. That’s rich. Ha.”

Arthur idly started running his hands over and through each other as he started jiggling his foot. “They’re more a family to me than any of my blood family.”

“Ha,” Stephens croaked again, coming to a stop to lean back against the wagon and cross her arms, glaring at him out of the corner of her eye about six feet away. “The Van der Linde gang is a  _ cult. _ Not a family. Sorry to break it to you, Morgan, but you were brainwashed.”

Arthur huffed and bristled at that. “Don’t believe the newspapers, Ma’am. You weren’t there.”

Stephens rolled her neck until it  _ cracked. _ “I read about you, you know. Beyond just newspapers. Van der Linde and Matthews took you in when you were a kid, mentored you, taught you everything you know, convinced you they loved you. It’s their modus operandi. They grew over half their gang like that. Some kind of demented ‘father complex,’ or just a really useful tool to get bullet shields. I’d put my money on Van der Linde having the complex, and Matthews just being a manipulative snake.”

Arthur squinted at her. “Bold words you’re using, there, Miss, considering you haven’t even met the man.”

He knew his mistake the second Stephens’s eyes locked onto his and her mouth twisted into a sharp-toothed, sneering smile. 

“You’re either stupid, or cruel. Which one is it?”

“Stupid,” he answered simply with a shrug. “I’m sorry.”

Stephens huffed and started pacing again. “Damn right you’re stupid. How could you fall for men like that?” She spat on the ground. “You were used, Morgan. Used and manipulated. That’s what men like that do. They pick up tools, use them until they break, and then move on. They never loved you. And I pity you.”

Arthur shifted uneasily in his seat. “If you’d just talk to the man, you’d see he ain’t like that.”

“It’s been quite a few minutes,” Stephens challenged. “Where  _ is he?” _

Arthur opened his pocket watch and frowned down at it with a furrowed brow. Hosea should’ve been there minutes ago.

_ “Well?” _

“He’ll be here,” Arthur swore.  _ He has to be. _

Stephens let out that hollow laugh again and climbed up to sit on the back of the wagon. “Oh, I pity you. I really, really do. The coward can’t even show his face. I could have strangled you by now or got you with a shiv or taken your gun, and your  _ pwecious leader _ ain’t here. A father to his men, truly.”

“I ain’t even carrying a gun, Miss,” Arthur said dryly, taking a deep breath to rekindle his patience. “And he  _ is _ a father to me. More than my blood one ever was.”

“You would’ve been better off sticking with your  _ real  _ daddy, Mr. Morgan.”

_ “Don’t-” _ Arthur snapped, and he turned his head to meet Stephens’s eyes again, flared wide and wild with her mouth twisting into a smiling snarl, as if itching for him to make a single aggressive move towards her. Arthur took another deep breath and deflated. “You make an awful lot of assumptions, Miss Stephens.”

“What’s there to assume?” she drawled, wilting slightly when he calmed down. “I saw him, Mr. Morgan. Matthews. I saw his true self. I saw what that monster truly was, using me and my Mama like we were toys. He’s a sick psychopath, that’s what he is.”

“He changed,” Arthur stated. As truth. As fact. His voice as resolute as it was gentle.

“Men can’t change,” Stephens spat. “Men never change.”

“I saw it,” Arthur pressed. “I’m  _ living  _ it. It’s why we’re here.”

When Stephens slowly raised her eyebrow, he continued.

“I got TB. Tuberculosis. This after we’d already stopped robbin’ folk and doin’ crime and all that - getting you out of that Hellhole is the first time we’ve walked against the law since Saint Denis.” Stephens’s face shuttered as he spoke. “He gave up everything - and I mean  _ everything  _ \- to bring me here and take care of me. To give me a chance at life. He’s been workin’ himself half to the grave to keep me warm and clothed and fed and rested instead of robbin’ folk or leaving my dead weight to go have fun with the others, so yeah,  _ Miss, _ I speak as an authority when I tell you that he changed. He’s the most earnest, truest man I know. He’s good, and kind, and he loves me like a  _ son. _ He hates his past and what he’s done and he worked hard to be a better man. He inspires  _ me  _ to be a better man. We both just want to live our lives and love our family.”

Stephens was quiet for a long moment as she kicked her feet back and forth where she sat on the wagon. Then, she said, “So he’s gone crazy and likes playing House. You’re still not blood. Blood is all that matters, Morgan. You only get one family. And he’ll never love you like a blood son.”

_ “It takes a lot more than blood to make a dad, Ma’am, _ and what does that even  _ mean?”  _ Arthur pressed, bristling again.

Stephens sneered at him. “It means he didn’t let my family live our lives and love each other.”

Silence settled, sick and unwell, between them once more.

Eventually, Arthur ventured, “...What the Hell even happened?”

Stephens kept kicking her feet back and forth as she stared at the floor. After a long few minutes, she quietly started, “...Me and my Mama were out on the town so she could run errands. We hated going into town. Ever since Daddy died, all the men would swarm all over Mama, trying to court her. Or trying to court her  _ money, _ more like. Everyone knew that she was a single woman in a big house sitting on a fortune. She hated it, because she loved Daddy. They all treated Mama like she was a piece of steak, or like she was stupid. Until…  _ He _ came along.

One day, someone snatched Mama’s purse. She screamed, and I remember hiding in her skirt, but then this blonde man came out of nowhere and ran the thief down, tackled him and hogtied him in an alley like he was in a frontier show. He grabbed Mama’s purse and gave it back to her and asked her what her name was. He was the first man I’d ever seen who didn’t know who Mama was. And I think Mama… I think it went to her head, because they got to talking, all… friendly-like. I don’t remember much, but I remember him saying that he was drifting because his fiance died. I remember that because I remember feeling  _ sad  _ for him. Heh…

Anyway… Mama offered him some work around the house because our roof was leaking and we didn’t have Daddy around to fix it anymore, so he fixed it. And then she asked him to fix and clean the windows, so then he did that. Then she asked him to groom the grounds, and he did that. She started inviting him to dinner, and he made us smile and laugh with funny stories. He played horsey with me. He fist-fought a man who was bothering Mama. And after that… that was the night Mama invited him to stay with us. Mama tucked me into bed, and I remember staring at her walking back to him. And then, she… closed the door.

Only… only I didn’t sleep very well that night. I got really thirsty, so I snuck out of bed to get a glass of water, and I… I just remember holding my glass and hearing something in the house coming from the safe. I went to look, and I saw him stealing everything. That’s when I hid behind the couch. He filled up his bags and started walking towards the door, and that’s when I saw Mama creep down the stairs with Daddy’s shotgun and yell at him.

I think he… He said something about him owing money to a gang. He groveled and cried a lot, but Mama called his bluff. He kept going for a bit, and then Mama said she was going to get the law to arrest and hang him, and that he was a dirty rotten liar who tricked her. That…”

Shirley’s voice started breaking, and she shivered on the back of the wagon as tears slid down her cheeks.

“...That’s when he stopped crying, and started…  _ laughing. _ It was like a mask fell off. He got really scary. And I could tell Mama was scared. I couldn’t see when he got a gun in his hand. I think I blinked. But he had it on Mama. He told her to put the gun down and let him leave with the money. And she… That… That was when she said the last thing she’d ever say. I remember it clear as day. ‘Cause it was the last time I ever heard her voice.

‘You’re a snake.’

And then he… h-he…  _ he shot her… He shot my Mama… _ there was… b-blood all over the place, and her body fell to the floor, and her e-eyes… And I made a noise and he saw me and he…” Stephens’s face twisted into an agonized thing. “He stared into my eyes… and the only thing I can remember… is him going…” She slowly raised her finger in front of her lips and made a slow  _ shhhhhhhhh  _ gesture. “And then he… h-he left. And the next thing I remember, the Sheriff was hugging me.” A sob tore out of her throat. “The gun wasn’t even  _ loaded!” _

Arthur sat in silence as the woman broke down into tears, burying her face in her hands. After a long minute, after her agonized noises finally started quieting down, he said, “I… am so, so sorry for your loss.”

_ “You have no idea what loss is!” _ she snarled, whipping her face out of her hands to sneer at him through her tears.

And that phrase, of all the words she could possibly say, is what struck his deepest nerve. 

Arthur hopped off the wagon and walked up to face her directly, standing at his full height as she sat up to hers. “I had a  _ son,” _ he hissed, voice low and broken. “A son and the mother to that child, my  _ friend, _ and they were both gunned down by a pair of two bit criminals who shot her dead and saw my son and  _ killed him too, _ and their deaths ain’t even the  _ half of it, _ so don’t you-”

“I’m glad!” she spat, a laugh wracking her chest as she jumped down from the wagon and stood chest to chest with him, her fists clenched, white-knuckled. “I’m glad they got killed! I’m glad your baby died rather than have a dirty no good criminal as a Daddy! You’re all the fucking same!”

Tears spilled out of his eyes and over his cheeks as he took a step back, slowly shaking his head as she continued to laugh maniacally. “You’re crazy… you’re not worth it…” he whispered to himself. 

“Oh,  _ me?! I’m _ crazy?!” She threw her head back and laughed harder. “I! Ain’t the one! Who  _ kills people, _ like you goddamn  _ dogs! _ You will all reap what you sow and I’ll piss on all of your graves! You think you deserve a happy ending, huh?! You think that just because you’re trying to pretend to be normal that you deserve a second chance?!  _ You threw away your chance _ the moment you took your first innocent life. The only good criminal is a  _ dead criminal. _ You really think he’s your Daddy, huh? Then tell me why should you get to run off and be happy with your Daddy when  _ I _ don’t get to be happy with my Mama? S-”

_ “I already lost my goddamn Dad in Saint Denis!” _ Arthur barked. “You knew your Ma for six years?  _ Well I knew him for twenty-two! _ I lost two Moms before that, and there ain’t no way in Hell I’m losing Hosea neither,  _ with all due respect, Miss.” _

“Well that’s too damn bad!” she shrieked, advancing on him. He stood his ground and let her bounce off his chest. “Because I’m going to find him. I’m going to find him, and I’m going to  _ kill him, nice and slow _ while you  _ watch. _ He ain’t never faced Justice, and so I’m gonna make sure he faces it at my own hands. Not just for me, but for all the people he’s ever killed. And you never wronged me, Morgan - you just got caught up in his shadow, so I’ll spare you so long as you don’t touch me, but I’ll pray you face Justice someday too.”

Arthur slowly shook his head as tears continued to slip down his face. “Revenge is a fool’s game,” he said softly. “And  _ I _ will pray that you’re one day able to let go of all that hatred in your heart, because I ain’t never seen a woman so dead on her own feet. And I hope you’re able to find peace in love and life rather than death and bloodshed one day, Miss Stephens. I truly do.”

“Choke,” Stephens spat.

“Have a safe trip home, Ma’am,” he said quietly, and with that he slipped off the harness from Hank’s horse, mounted up, and rode off into the soft golden light of the day - leaving Stephens alone to seethe in the dark.

\--

When Arthur opened up the front door, he found Hosea sitting pale as a ghost at the kitchen table with his head in his hands, dressed back in his regular plainclothes. His head snapped up as soon as Arthur walked in, and his jaw immediately clenched. “A-Arthur… I’m- I’m sorry, I couldn’t-”

“Don’t worry about it,” Arthur murmured, slowly walking forward to slump down in the chair next to Hosea. “I’m glad you weren’t there. You were right not to show your face. I’ve… never seen a woman more consumed with… pure, tar-like hatred.” He shuddered and sniffled.

“Are you okay?” Hosea asked faintly. Arthur bit his lip and slowly shook his head. “Oh, dear boy…” Hosea breathed, standing from his chair and moving closer to hug Arthur close, tucking him against his chest and running his hand through his hair. “I’m so sorry for subjecting you to all this. I’m so sorry for putting all that… putting facing her all on you.”

Arthur closed his eyes and took a deep breath. “Be careful when you go into the city from now on?”

“I’ll change marketplaces,” Hosea murmured, tucking his hair back behind his ear. “You did good, son. You did  _ real good. _ Saving her from that wretched place was the right thing to do. I just wish… I just wish I’d been less of a coward.” He shook his head with a shuddering, rasping breath. “I’m done having you fight my battles for me.” 

Arthur chuckled softly. “I’d like it if neither of us could fight  _ any  _ battles no more.” 

Hosea squeezed him tighter. “Let us hope, dear boy… let us hope.”

After a few seconds, Arthur tapped Hosea’s stomach to prompt him to let go. As soon as he did, Arthur stood up and pulled Hosea into him in a full, proper hug, burying his face in the man’s shoulder. Hosea stood frozen for a long moment, then slowly wound his arms around Arthur’s back in a vice grip, pressing a kiss to his hair.

“I love you, old man,” Arthur said hoarsely.

“I love you too, child,” Hosea murmured into his hair. “More than you’ll ever know.”

Arthur slowly closed his eyes.

_ We just want to be happy, _ he silently pleaded to the world, to God, to whatever was listening.  _ Please… Please, just let us be happy. _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **1) Dutch van der Linde's Last Stand**  
>  **2) Escape from Saint Denis**  
>  **3) Escape from Lemoyne**  
>  **4) The Letter**  
>  **5) Reunions**  
>  **6) Unfinished Business**  
>  **7) I Know You**  
>  **8) Dreams, Omens, and Other Harbingers**  
>  **9) For Whom the Bell Tolls**  
>  **10) My First Boy**  
>  **11) National Jewish Health**  
>  **12) Sins of the Past**  
>  **13) Atonement**  
>  **14) Arcadia for Amateurs VI**  
>  **15) Violated**  
>  **16) The Letter II**  
>  **17) Eleanor Stephens**  
>  18) Pa


	18. Pa

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Songs/prayers featured in this chapter:  
> 1\. [Blessing for Lighting Shabbat Candles](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kfRea4na51A)  
> 2\. [Friday Night Kiddush](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Fv8r3fS65V0)  
> 3\. [Hamotzi](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Sr_HW3rpXHE)
> 
> I hope you all enjoy the [penultimate chapter](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=gB_jW9bUmm8) ♥

**_February, 1900_ **

The quiet _whush_ of the match lighting was a soothing, familiar sound as Arthur carefully lifted the flame up to their two humble Shabbat candles, even though his heart was pounding in his chest. It was normally Hosea who led the Shabbat blessings - or Shabbos, as Hosea called it, and Arthur was still confused about which one he should use, seeing how jumbled Hebrew and Yiddish were in all of this - which just made him all the more confused as to why Hosea got the bright idea that _Arthur_ should lead the blessings this Friday. The head of the household was supposed to be the one to do the blessings - or, more specifically, the head _matriarch_ of the household. 

...He really shouldn’t be surprised Hosea was breaking from tradition.

The candles lit easily enough, forging soft flickering points of golden-white light that lit up his and Hosea’s faces in a myriad of dancing warm colors and gentle shadows. Arthur blew out and set aside the match, and then, with a proud smile and encouraging nod from Hosea, Arthur took a deep breath and waved his hands over the flames before bringing them to his eyes once… twice… three times… then covered them, swallowing thickly as he desperately wracked his brain for the words. Lord knew he heard Hosea say them enough over the past six months - and the memory of the man at the start of it all, awkwardly stumbling his way through the Hebrew that made even his silver tongue seem clunky, made him feel just a little less self-conscious.

_“Baruch atah Adonai, Eloheinu Melech haolam... asher kid’shanu, b’mitzvotav, v’tzivanu... l’hadlik ner, l’hadlik ner, shel Shabbat.”_

When Arthur lowered his hands, he was instantly met by Hosea’s beaming face, who reached across the table to clap him on the elbow. “You did good! That was great!”

“Can I use the prayer book no-?”

 _“Yes_ you can use the prayer book now.”

Arthur heaved a sigh of relief and pulled the book closer to him on the table as Hosea snickered, mumbling to himself as he flipped through it trying to find the Kiddush. Hosea waited patiently until Arthur found the earmarked page, then nodded again as Arthur leaned forward to squint and sing the prayer, red continuing to grow in his cheeks and his ears.

 _“Baruch atah Adonai-”_ he saw Hosea pick up his cup of grape juice and hurried to pick up his own, biting back a curse “- _Adonai Eloheinu, Melech haolam, borei p’ri hagafen. Baruch atah, Adonai Eloheinu, Melech haolam, asher kid’shanu b’mitzvotav v’ratzah vanu, v’Shabbat kodsho b’ahavah uv’ratzon hinchilanu, zikaron l’maaseih v’reishit. Ki hu yom t’chilah l’mikra-ei kodesh, zecher litziat Mitzrayim. Ki vanu vacharta, v’otanu kidashta, mikol haamim. V’Shabbat kodsh’cha b’ahavah uv’ratzon hinchaltanu. Baruch atah, Adonai, m’kadeish haShabbat.”_

Both men lifted their cups to their lips and took a sip, then set it down. 

“I butchered that,” Arthur muttered, flipping through the prayer book to find Hamotzi.

“Eh, I butcher it every Friday, so who cares?” Hosea said with a shrug.

Finally finding the blessing, Arthur straightened up and removed the cloth covering over the challah, then held up the loaf of bread and sang, _“Baruch atah, Adonai Eloheinu, Melech haolam, haMotzi lechem min haaretz.”_

“B’tay-a-von!” Hosea added, and Arthur chuckled as he set the bread down and they both took their seats perpendicular to each other, eagerly pulling over their bowls of chili and tearing off chunks of challah to dip in the dish. 

Arthur crammed the dripping bread into his mouth and took a bite, then lowly hummed his approval. “Damn, thish ish good,” he gruffed around his mouthful. He exchanged a sparkling-eyed glance with Hosea before shoveling his bread into the chili again and taking a bite.

“It’s about damn time we finally got around to making that chili I was talking about,” Hosea agreed with a laugh as Arthur continued to shovel food into his mouth. “And I got to teach you how to make challah all in the same day! Next I’m gonna have to teach you the basics. Like…” he thoughtfully took a bite. “...eggs.” He blinked and took another thoughtful bite, his eyes widening. _“Damn,_ Arthur, you did good putting together these flavors. It tastes even better than it smells!” He set his bread aside to pick up his spoon and scoop the chili into his mouth with a grunt of approval.

Arthur’s mouth twitched upwards into a shy smile. “Well… you were so excited about teaching me to make chili, I didn’t wanna… disappoint ya.”

Hosea dramatically dropped his spoon and slapped his hand over Arthur’s, startling him. “Do you remember what the hell we’ve been eating for the past ten years?!”

“Well!” Arthur gruffed, his breath wheezing into laughter the same as Hosea’s as he also abandoned his bread in favor of picking up his spoon. “A piece of _moldy cheese_ tastes better than Pearson’s slop, that ain’t a high bar!” 

“We’re respectable _family men_ now, Arthur,” Hosea declared, sobering as he picked up his spoon again. “You need to know how to provide for the people you care for - in a _home.”_

Arthur swallowed his mouthful, his grin wilting as he eyed Hosea where the man was eating. “I understand, but… it kind of feels like… like you’re trying to prepare me for living life without ya.”

The air settled into silence for a minute as they both ate, Hosea’s brow gently knit in thought as something heavy settled in the lines in his face. Arthur waited patiently until Hosea finally said, “Fathers… the good ones… their goal should always be to get the children in their care ready for life without them. And Dutch and I… we… we did the opposite.” The shadows resting under Hosea’s eyes got a little darker. “The fantasy was that we… we’d take in all these children, and keep them forever, and then none of us would ever die, and we’d just… run around having adventures and helping folk in need forever.” He frowned down at his spoon where it rested halfway to his mouth, and after studying the chili for a long moment, his eyes softened with a deep sorrow. “We actively discouraged your independence, Arthur, and that shames me. The life we subjected you to, raised you into, cursed you with… shames me. We burdened you with a legacy-"

"You remember why I wanted to convert to Judaism in the first place?" Arthur interrupted. “It was so that I can carry a part of your legacy with me. I don’t share your blood, and I don’t share your name, and you _dissolved the gang, -”_ the name _Hosea_ broke apart in his throat, feeling somehow wrong on his tongue, like it had been steadily growing for a while now. “You’ve _always_ been a family man. You’ve been taking care of us for decades. When I think of your legacy, I don’t think of bloodshed and death. I think about John, and Miss Tilly, and _all the rest of us_ able to smile and laugh and sleep at night ‘cause we knew you were nearby. Dutch may have brought us all together, but it was _you_ who made us a _family._ And don’t you ever forget that you saved us, every one of us, from that life - and it was a life we all _chose,_ not out of malice, but because it was _safe_ there. Because you two offered us kindness and love where no one else would. I ain’t got one damn regret. No regret but-...” his voice broke and he had to steel himself before lifting his gaze to meet Hosea’s wide, analytic eyes. “No regret but that I wasn’t born to you,” he finished quietly. 

Hosea’s expression trembled in the most minute of movements, but for the most part, it held. He blinked and turned away, resting his elbows on the table to drag his hands down his face. He huffed a laugh, then groaned, rubbing the back of his neck. “God, I was doing so well…” he sighed, a wan smile slowly growing on his face. _“Regret._ It’s what I struggle with most. Bessie knew it. Dutch knew it. It’s a _war,_ to… not let it eat me whole. And I have been _trying,_ dear boy. _Oh,_ how I’ve tried. But that whole damn mess last month, it- well… it kicked the hornet’s nest.” He sat up straight, then, rolling his neck with a _crack_ and picking up his spoon, pushing his chili around his bowl. “So much good I’ve taken from the world… and you… you kids…” He huffed another laugh. “You add so much to it.” There was a beat before Hosea ate another spoonful of chili, and Arthur did the same. “You know why I wanted you to have a hand in creating this chili so bad?” he asked around his mouthful.

Arthur shrugged and shook his head with a soft noise as he ate.

“I had this grand plan to construct a family recipe, back on the homestead with Bessie,” Hosea said quietly, his tone warm with the fondness of memory. “I was going to come up with this… hearty chili. My own special, secret recipe, and then pass it down to our children, so that they could pass it down to their children and their children’s children. Bessie thought it was the cutest thing. ‘The Matthews Family Chili.’” He shook his head and turned towards Arthur once more. “Only… we couldn’t… have any children,” he said haltingly, and Arthur felt an old, terrible weight sink over his shoulders and slide down into his stomach. “And I…” Hosea’s expression finally crumpled. “I’d never presume or pretend to be your father, Arthur, but I wanted you to have this,” Hosea said quietly. “I may be a cheap imitation of a father to you, but you _are_ my _son. My blood son._ Not because you were born from me, but because I’d shed any amount of blood if it meant keeping you safe and letting you live a happy life.”

It was Arthur’s turn for his eyes to widen.

“And so I want to do everything in my power to teach you the skills you need to live an _honest_ life. To provide for that man of yours - maybe for more, whatever you choose. To pass down or to keep. And I want you to have your own legacy. To live proudly as _Arthur Morgan._ And maybe you can call it ‘The Morgan Chili-’”

Arthur swallowed thickly and opened his mouth.

“-or hell, choose a completely different dish, I just chose chili because it’s cheap and easy and feeds a bunch of hungry mouths, you can pick anything you want and we can try to make it together, but all I want is for you to be able to get out of my shadow and _be your own man_ without having to worry about me or any of my sin-”

“Stop.”

Hosea stopped talking and squinted at him.

“Stop,” Arthur repeated, softer. “Please… stop. Listen.”

Hosea blinked, then nodded, relaxing and sitting back in his chair, turning to fully face Arthur.

“You know how, during our time in the gang, we’d call ourselves ‘Van der Lindes’?” he prompted. Hosea eyed him, then slowly nodded. “Well. When it comes to family… I don’t see myself as a Morgan. I see myself as a Matthews. Because the man that always comes to my mind when I think about what it means to be kind? What it means to be fair? To be _human?_ To be a _good father?_ Is _you.”_

Hosea paled as his eyes slowly grew wet. 

Arthur forged on, slamming a finger into the table, “You and I have been through Hell and Highwater together and have endured whole _lifetimes_ of horseshit- of- of regret, and mistakes, and love and life and loss and you have always, _always_ been there for me. And _now,_ I-” his voice broke as he gestured at his chest, slowly but surely taking the tuberculosis scratching at his lungs and suppressing it back towards slumber. “I’d’ve choked to death on my own blood or killed myself a dozen times over if it weren’t for you. _You gave me my life._ And…” he paused as a wave of gooseflesh shivered down his arms and his back, taking a deep breath to gather his strength. 

“Last month got me thinking a lot too. About family. About what a _real_ family is. About what it would mean if I _lost you.”_ One tear, then another slipped down Hosea’s cheeks as Arthur spoke. “I keep thinking back to when we last saw John. When he thought we were going to die. He called me- he called me brother, and you-... _Pa.”_ Hosea’s breath hitched and a tear escaped from Arthur’s own eyes. “And we both know that boy has always been able to see the truth of things far before the rest of us. And that was true then, and it’s true now, and… you… you’re my _Pa.”_ Hosea was openly crying, now, and Arthur wasn’t far behind. “And I’m tired of pretendin’ you’re anything else. Society didn't hand you that title, but you’ve earned it. A thousand times over. And I’ve used that name for you in a hundred cons and aliases but it’s _real_ to me now. I ain’t trapped in your shadow - you’re the one boosting me up to a better life, you damned _fool. You made me my own man._ And when I go forward, I damn well want to take you with me, for as long as you can stay in this world-” his voice broke “-Pa.”

A sob slipped out of Hosea’s chest, and Arthur followed it up with one of his own, shortly before Hosea rose from his chair and crushed Arthur in a desperate hug, and Arthur slid out of his chair to sink to his knees on the floor, crushing Hosea in his own embrace and tucking his head over the man’s shoulder as they both fisted their hands into the backs of each other’s shirts, tears flowing as freely as if a dam had broke - a dam of doubt, of longing, of illusion.

There was none of that here. There was no room for it.

Hosea was Arthur’s father.

And Arthur was Hosea’s son.

And there was a _family_ that _loved them,_ waiting for them to come _home._

“Gonna have to make this Matthews Chili for everyone when we get home,” Arthur choked out, smiling and shivering with a laugh and a weak cough.

Hosea pressed a kiss to his hair. “We’re almost there, son, we’re almost there. Can’t travel just yet, but we’re almost there.”

“I am getting _better, goddammit.”_

“That you are, son, that you are.”

Arthur screwed his eyes shut. “I love you. Pa.”

An uneasy breath slipped out of Hosea’s lungs. The man better get used to it. “I love you too, dear boy.”

The two of them remained there, incredulously smiling and breathlessly laughing in the hold of the other as their dinner got cold, kneeling on the floor of their house in that ever-promised West, basked in the rich indigo moonlight of the sixth full moon that rose over their home away from home since they first reached the healing air of Denver.

It was the same moonlight that, miles and miles to the north, was shimmering over dried, brown grass waving in the night breeze like the soil’s grown ocean, underneath the endless starry sky, flowing with all the colors of the Milky Way in a curious ribbon of pinks and greens, grays and blues.

Two pairs of sturdy light brown equine ankles, belonging to a fine Hungarian Half-bred, thrashed through the grass. They were swiftly followed by thinner yet solid ankles, mottled a smoky gray with splashes of white that would eventually turn into a blanket spotted with darker spots, beside a pair of tall ankles wrapped in white socks below a golden dappled buckskin coat. 

“We’ve got to be at the Colorado border by now.”

“You would know, wouldn’t you Charles? Never seen a finer man at reading the land.”

“I can’t read it well enough to see imaginary borders.”

“Well we _better be close!_ We’ve been riding hard for _months,_ and every day I can’t see them is another day either one of ‘em could _die,_ and _I won’t be there.”_

“Calm _down,_ John, don’t let that handkerchief ‘round your neck choke you out.”

“You should have stayed in Canada, John. With your family.”

“Hosea and Arthur are my family _too._ And my family ain’t whole on that ranch. And I ain’t stopping until it is again. I’ve lost _enough._ I’ve grieved for them already. I _ain’t losing them. No matter what.”_

“We’ll get there, honey.”

“We’ve pushed our horses hard today. We need to let them rest soon. We can’t help Arthur or Hosea if we get stranded or slowed with a lame horse.”

“I… I… You’re right. Whoa, there, boy. I’m sorry.”

“Hey… boys? I just wanted to say… Thank you for riding with me back East to wipe out those damn O’Driscolls. I know it cost us time. I don’t want to find Arthur dead any more than either of you do.”

“Of course.”

“It’s the least I could do after you put your closure on hold to travel a thousand miles keeping my wife and child safe with me. And besides, it was good to see Colm cryin’ ‘fore he died. I’m glad to have you with us, Sadie. You’re family far as I’m concerned.”

“Glad to be here.”

“Arthur will be glad to see you.”

“And I him! Him _and_ that silly older version of himself.”

“A fair assessment.”

“Hold on, brother… Pa… we’re coming.”

The moon watched the three shadowy figures trot towards the low lights of a small town, shining its light down on their backs and the brims of two of their hats, shining off of long black hair tied into a tight braid on the third.

It was the same light that shined on long, loose, flowing black hair in Denver, before it got shrouded in the shadows of a back alley. Slow footsteps crept down the filthy cobblestones, then stopped. A pale hand sank down towards the Earth to grab a crumbled brick. Weighed it. Hefted it once, twice.

The explosive shattering of glass pierced through the night in its shrill cry as the brick tumbled to a stop on the wooden floor, surrounded by display after display of guns. The brick hadn’t even stopped bouncing before boots sprang through the window and ran up to a double-barreled shotgun - clawed hands snatched it off of its display stand, then snatched a large box of shells before taking flight back into the night to the sound of pounding footsteps and heavy breathing, whipping around a corner and into the secrecy of darkness with shotgun and ammunition in hand, the slim sliver of moonlight peeking between the buildings blinking over a billowing skirt.

It was the same moonlight that glittered off a dark, hot steam engine only a mile away, wheezing out a gust of steam and smoke into the night and corrupting its light.

A pair of finely polished black loafers under gray uniform pants stepped out of the passenger car and onto the station platform.

Then a second.

Then… a third.

“So… _Denver…_ it’s a Hell of a place to run.”

“And are we sure they’re even here?”

“Our sources are _good, boy.”_

“Andrew, Andrew, my good friend, lay off the young fella. He’s our _specialist,_ after all. He’s had the most contact with Matthews than any of us. Isn’t that right, Bernstein?”

“...Yes, Sir, but I don’t-”

“Don’t _what?”_

“Don’t… Don’t… Don’t know how much use I’ll be on this investigation. Sir. I’m barely a year with the Agency-”

“Then it’s time to prove your worth, isn’t it, kid?”

“...Sir.”

“I’ve had quite enough of this game of cat and mouse. Matthews made this _personal.”_

“Heh, remember that the bounty’s higher if we bring them in alive, Andrew. You can get your kicks watching him squirm at the end of a rope in Saint Denis.”

“Oh, Edgar. You still have things to learn yet. I’m going to show you all the joys of when they… _‘resist arrest.’”_

“What’s that Bernstein? You made a noise.”

“...Nothing. **_Sir.”_ **

“Remember not to forget Morgan. That man’s a living weapon.”

“Why do you think Bernstein’s here?”

“. . .”

“. . .”

“I- I-I thought I’d be dealing with Matthews?”

“You’re playing with the big boys now, kid. Just do as we say and you’ll be _fine.”_

“...I’m ready to leave, Sirs.”

“Well then let’s get the Hell to a hotel so you can take your nappy. We’ll start our hunt at sun’s first light.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Hope you got your things together_  
>  _Hope you are quite prepared to die_  
>  _Looks like we're in for nasty weather_  
>  _One eye is taken for an eye_
> 
>  _Well don't go around tonight_  
>  _Well it's bound to take your life_  
>  _**[There's a bad moon on the rise](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=bKDtu3dhRWE)**_
> 
>  **1) Dutch van der Linde's Last Stand**  
>  **2) Escape from Saint Denis**  
>  **3) Escape from Lemoyne**  
>  **4) The Letter**  
>  **5) Reunions**  
>  **6) Unfinished Business**  
>  **7) I Know You**  
>  **8) Dreams, Omens, and Other Harbingers**  
>  **9) For Whom the Bell Tolls**  
>  **10) My First Boy**  
>  **11) National Jewish Health**  
>  **12) Sins of the Past**  
>  **13) Atonement**  
>  **14) Arcadia for Amateurs VI**  
>  **15) Violated**  
>  **16) The Letter II**  
>  **17) Eleanor Stephens**  
>  **18) Pa**  
>  19) Red Dead Redemption  
>  20) Epilogue


End file.
